


Falsetto

by Ketakoshka



Series: Unconventional Omegaverse [1]
Category: Sleepy Hollow (1999)
Genre: Alpha Brom, Alpha Lady Van Tassel, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Beta Katrina, Beta Masbath, Bondage, Canon-Typical Violence, Come Inflation, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/F, F/M, Gen, Ichabod Speaks German, Ichabod adopts Masbeth, Infertile Ichabod, Infertility, Kidnapping, M/M, Magic, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Multi, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Ichabod, Other, Parent Ichabod, Period-Typical Sexism, Protective Daredevil, Protective Hessian, Sloppy Makeouts, The Hessian Speaks English, Threesome - M/M/M, eventually consensual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:07:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 23
Words: 19,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25635553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ketakoshka/pseuds/Ketakoshka
Summary: Ichabod Crane is an unmated omega. He's also a determined constable with radical ideas to change the state of law in New York City, but if anyone were to find out...Ichabod Crane is the son of a witch. He's grateful for her lessons on how to make herbal remedies to suppress his heat and disguise his scent.He just wasn't expecting to lose his supplies just after getting to Sleepy Hollow.
Relationships: Brom Van Brunt/Katrina Van Tassel, Ichabod Crane/Brom Van Brunt, Ichabod Crane/Katrina Van Tassel, Ichabod Crane/Lady Van Tassel, Ichabod Crane/The Hessian (Sleepy Hollow 1999), Ichabod Crane/The Hessian (Sleepy Hollow 1999)/Brom Van Brunt
Series: Unconventional Omegaverse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1884724
Comments: 31
Kudos: 108





	1. Insubordination

**Author's Note:**

> World Notes:
> 
> Omega Males and Alpha Females are intersex; they can both 'father' and 'mother' children but can be infertile in regards to either or both of these possibilities. Ichabod is infertile to both.
> 
> Quailing is term for a specific type of cry omegas make when they're in heat. If an unmated omega is quailing, any alpha can sexually assault that omega without criminal prosecution.
> 
> Omegas are often forbidden from civil service (police, fire, ems, etc.).

_ "You must never let them know that you're an omega… You must remain free, little bird." _

Ichabod Crane quite liked the way he smelled, like honeysuckle and mint with the faintest flash of autumn leaves. Ichabod did not like the way his concealer made him smell, like wood ash, cloves and burnt sage; a bit strong for a beta, but enough to hide his real scent…

He knows that his real scent could never be played off as a beta’s, and certainly not an alpha’s; it’s too sweet and soft and cloyingly delicate. It's too much of a giveaway… too much of a risk… too much of a promise he won't give.

Sometimes, the smoke and filth in the city make Ichabod wish for a time when he and his mother could spend all day in the garden… when she’d painstakingly teach him what each plant was good for and how to use magic for good… when she’d attempt to undo all of the damage his father’s fundamentalist teachings were causing… when he didn’t feel ashamed of his secondary gender… when he was assured that he was just as good, just as capable, just as worthy as a beta or alpha…

Yes, sometimes, Ichabod would wish for those days with his mother, and nothing made him wish it so as when some arrogant alpha tried to lord over his perceived secondary gender in an attempt to champion himself as the understanding of all that is decent and just.

Especially the thrice-damned burgermeister. 

“Constable Crane, I have had enough of these ridiculous claims that the way we interrogate criminals is untrustworthy. That sort of foolishness is not becoming of a police officer in my courtroom.”

“It is unjust!” Ichabod snaps, barely managing to keep the bare threads of composure; there’s always a snarling in his head whenever he witnesses the brutal torture suspected criminals go through, and it takes every ounce of his being not act upon it. “You cannot trust any confession given under duress!” He can hear a little kerfuffle from the usual suspects, the ones who are half convinced that Ichabod must be an alpha in disguise with how little he cares for the difference he’s required to give his superior, but he pays them no mind; it’s a rumor that has only benefited him over the years… the idea that he’s too brash to be an omega...

“You think that your  _ science _ could give you these answers? That the law on which we derive our methods is unjust?”

“Yes. I. Do.”

“Well then, Mr. Crane…” Ichabod wrestles with the desire to bare his teeth at that sickening tone and clear lack of respect. “It’s time for you to prove it… There’s a village two days ride from here called Sleepy Hollow…”


	2. A Village Without Omegas

As Ichabod steps foot into the grand house, he’s assaulted by the heady scents of alphas and the woodland tones of betas… but the only sweet, the only soft is from the apples and dried flowers dotting the tables… He grimaces.  _ ‘Great. Another place that won’t let omegas do anything,’ _ he thinks but tries to keep the snarling off his face.

It’s packed by more people than Ichabod would have suspected, a party to perhaps get their minds off the murders, but still amongst the dulled fabrics and sepia tones, he stands out with his crispness of his black coat and the unblemished white of his shirt… Hell, his hair alone seems to be darker than those around him. He notes the way stares follow him, but he travels further inward without delay; he knows that Lord Baltus Van Tassel will be in the heart of it all… Most lords prefer to lie in the center of their nebulous web of wealth and power; parties are no different.

However, when he turns a corner to find a crowd gathered for a game, he’s surprised to find a young maiden in a fairly brilliant white dress with bright red accents in the middle of them… the pickety witch.

“The Pickety Witch, the Pickety Witch… who’s got a kiss for the Pickety Witch?” Ichabod supposes that he should be trying to get away from her searching hands on principle alone, but it’s been so long since he’d seen anyone play that game… He thinks of his mother and is stilled by the memory. “Is it Theodore?” she asks, her fingers touching lightly to unblemished skin.

“I’m afraid not,” he replies, stepping back half a step from her hand. “I am but a stranger."

“Then have a kiss on account.” With a soft smile, she leans forward and presses one against his cheek, and the spicy scent of ginger, rosemary and old parchment nearly drowns out the overwhelming scent of the nearby alphas.

“I… I am looking for Baltus Van Tassel.”

When she pulls off her blindfold, the young woman blinks at him but smiles again. “I am his daughter, Katrina Van Tassel.”

"And you, friend?" Ichabod's head turns towards a tall, tawny haired man with a sharp, roguish face and the stance of a man who knows hard labor… a blacksmith perhaps; Ichabod already dislikes him. "We have not heard your name yet."

Ichabod's quite pleased at how he keeps the growl out of his voice and retorts back with a cool but sharp, "I have not said it." He turns back to Katrina and kindly says, "excuse me."

The Alpha smelling of stoked coals, ironwood and heather soap snarls and grabs Ichabod's shoulder. "You need some manners!" he snaps, his scent sharpening with anger and swamping the air around them.

The world around them silences, and eyes turn towards the corner as if daring Ichabod to fight the temperamental alpha. However, Ichabod only looks back at the other with cold, dark eyes and the slightest downturn of the lips. Again, he finds himself grateful for the evenness of his false scent, belaying nothing about the state of his turbulent mind; it's undoubtedly unnerving to an alpha so used to getting his way.

Before a fight can truly break out, an older, harried man appears from a back room. "Come, come," he chirps with a disapproving glint to his eye. "We want no raised voices. It is only to raise the spirits during this dark time that I and my good wife are giving this little party." Ichabod quickly surmises the man's identity by the subtle deference shown his way and the calmness that settles Katrina's worried rosemary. "Young sir, you are most welcome, even if you are selling something!"

Not sure if he should be irritated at the idea that he's a wandering salesman, Ichabod pushes the idea out of his mind and tries his hardest to keep his voice level and professional. “My name is Constable Ichabod Crane. I was sent from New York to investigate the reported murders.” He quickly reaches into his inner pocket and pulls out his credentials to offer them to Van Tassel’s scrutiny. Ichabod notes the look shared between Baltus Van Tassel and the bejeweled beta beside him when they're handed back, and he mentally makes a note to watch the two of them for a while.

"Then Sleepy Hollow is most grateful to you," the blonde woman, likely Lady Van Tassel soothes. "And we hope that you will honor us by staying in this house until an arrest is made."

"I appreciate it," Ichabod replies, his tone just a might bit softer than before.

"Good." Lady Van Tassel looks out over the crowd and calls, "Sarah, will you take him up to the attic room?"

* * *

  
  


“Sarah…” She stops just shy of opening the door again and looks back at the man standing at the bed, his fingers playing along the spine of a black-bound notebook. “Why weren’t any omegas at the party?”

Whatever question Sarah had been expecting, it certainly wasn’t that, but she knows that it’s strange to someone who doesn’t know. “Because they’re all dead.” She can’t help but notice the way his spine stiffens and an undercurrent of unease comes from his body, even if his scent doesn’t really change. “Widow Winship was the last omega in the village,” she explains and picks at her dress. “Since she was killed, there’s just us betas and a dozen alphas.”


	3. Sabotage

Ichabod reaches out to touch the old gielding’s nose. “Please be nice to me, Gunpowder…” he whispers, his voice soft and awed at the gentleness he’s been granted. “I’ve never ridden a horse before.” Gunpowder wickers and pushes his nose further into Ichabod’s hand; it’s so soft, and Ichabod smiles so sweetly.

“He can be a bit headstrong at times, but he’s the gentlest horse I have,” Killian decrees.

Ichabod looks up from Gunpowder’s dark eyes and turns toward the greying boy’s owner. “I appreciate it,” he replies, his smile never wavering, “truly… He’s wonderful.”

Killian smiles back, but before he can say anything more, a shot rings out from the field before the Western Woods. At the proclamation of murder, the two of them mount and head off after the alarmer with Ichabod grateful that Killian has taken the lead and Gunpowder is more than willing to follow.

* * *

The body of Jonathan Masbath Sr. is not… quite what Ichabod was expecting.

He’s seen many gruesome sights over the years, but the crowd around the headless body, not a single one of them wearing anything that constitutes brightness only seems to sour and somber the trees around them. The air is heavy with fear, the battling scents becoming somehow more disgusting than the smell of the body itself; it’s distracting.

“What of the head?” he asks.

“Taken.”

Ichabod’s brows furrow, and his gaze sweeps across the ground, noting the large stride of the horse and the turn in its tracks. “He went back for the head…” He drops to his knees beside Masbath’s body and quickly opens his case, rifling through chemicals equipment until he can bring himself to look closely at the neck wound. He stops for a moment once he puts on his goggles, finally used to all the fear so that he can smell Jonathan Masbath Sr. more clearly… and there’s something… something odd...

When he gets closer to the wound, he smells it so clearly beneath the blood, gunpowder and fear: wisteria.

“What is it?” Brom grouses, and Ichabod jerks up, suddenly remembering that he isn’t alone.

He turns to look at Van Tassel and asks, “does wisteria grow around here?” At the blank look, he continues further, “a purple-ish blue, flowering tree that grows much like a weeping willow.”

“No… I’ve never seen anything like that around here.” Confirmation goes around the circle. “Why do you ask?”

Ichabod sighs sharply. “Either Jonathan Masbath Sr. was an omega in disguise, which I doubt considering its faintness and discordance with what I believe is his real scent, or he’s been in recent contact with someone who carries that note… and whoever that was is likely the person who killed him.”

“Are you saying an omega killed him?” Brom quips, and in a small corner, a couple of boys make a joke about crazy pre-heat omegas killing for sex.

Ichabod internally growls but dutifully ignores them. “Considering, I was informed that there are no living omegas in Sleepy Hollow, that is unlikely unless the perpetrator is living in these woods. It is far more likely that the individual or someone close to them favors wisteria as a complementary perfume.”

Ichabod goes back to his investigation, noting the way that little blood got onto the clothes… and the wound itself… “It’s completely cauterized.”

There is no love lost between the church and Ichabod, but he won’t begrudge these people their beliefs… or the last rites of a dead man.

Part of him wants to reach out and offer condolences or assurances or… something to the young boy in grey: Jonathan Masbath Jr, but Ichabod isn’t good at such things. He doesn’t know if it would be received well, and he doesn’t want to draw more attention to himself than necessary. The boy has a mother; he doesn’t need a closeted omega to take care of him. ‘ _ He will be fine, Ichabod. There’s no need to get involved.’ _

When the rites are concluded, Ichabod decides to leave quickly but doesn’t get all that far. “Mr. Constable, Sir!” The boy’s voice rings out behind Ichabod, so broken but still upbeat; he wants to wrap him up within his coat…

But that would be odd, so Ichabod turns around and responds, “young Masbath.”

“Yes… although it's just Masbath now since it's just me.” Ichabod feels his heart ache. “I have sworn to avenge my father’s death.”

“Well, thank you, Masbath…” He swallows down the urge to hug him again. “But I think your mother will need you more than I.”

“My mother is in heaven, sir.”

Ichabod’s throat runs dry. “Do… do you have no one to look after you?”

“No… and neither do you! I will be your man, sir.”

Ichabod internally flinches at the idea; this youngling is so alone… so worried that he’s willing to submit himself to servitude for a chronic mess. With a sigh, Ichabod claps a hand on Masbath’s shoulder and pulls him into a self indulgent hug. “Alright… I can’t guarantee that you’ll stay with me when I leave, but for now… For now, I’ll look after you.”

Masbath squeezes Ichabod tight, and a small, strangled part of Ichabod’s heart sings at such affectionate touch… It’s been quite some time since anyone has willingly done so. “Thank you, sir.”

“Ichabod.”

“Huh?”

The constable’s dark eyes search out Masbath’s, and with a conflicted but content smile, he says, “you may call me Ichabod, Masbath.”

“Jonathan,” the boy chirps. “You can call me Jonathan then.”

Magistrate Phillips’s proclamation of a fifth victim but four bodies arouses a peculiar curiosity and fear in Ichabod’s mind. It is this fear that leads him to exhume the body of Widow Winship. Through the beginning decay, he can still smell her scent of calla lilies and vanilla… and under it the barest edge of milk. He knows before he even checks her stomach, before he cuts her open to be absolutely sure… Widow Winship was pregnant.

But still, despite what knowledge this ordeal brings him, it does little more than bounce around his head with faint niggling when he walks back up to the attic to think and perhaps take a nap. He feels a bit more tired than usual, but he supposes that it has more to do with the stressful situation than anything else. It's not like his heat is due for another three weeks, and Ichabod plans to be long gone by that time.

Hell, even if it does crop up early, he brought suppressants, and the most he should deal with is a hint of nausea, a mockedem of pain and an annoying twinge of arousal. He's not worried in the slightest… Not one bit.

Ichabod thinks of Masbath, and a sweet little curl of affection nestles in his chest. Perhaps, he should have moved him up into the attic too. He's much too young to be so far from the nest. Perhaps, a couple rooms over but not across the house. Especially with all of these unfamiliar betas and alphas around. The only safe spot for  _ his  _ youngling is in his... nest.

Ichabod's eyes widen, and he dives for the hidden bag in his leftover luggage. The bag is… wet. Ichabod looks up at the window to see where a small leak had made its way to the concealed bag… to his packed suppressants and scent blockers.

He opens it up to find a mess inside: mush and strewn herbs, a disgusting concoction that sends a sharp round of nausea through him.

He shudders and drops the bag to the ground and his body to the bed. He's sure… so very sure that he's going into heat within the next week… and after his current blocker got splattered with old blood, he has nothing to prevent the villagers from finding out he's an omega.


	4. Hierarchy

“Katrina… can you and Masbath come up to my room for a moment?”

Ichabod’s hands shake against the door frame, white fingers curled just a bit too tightly; he’s bundled up with his coat under a heavy quilt, trying to keep his scent from spreading outwards, but he's still terrified. He’d tried to salvage a blocker, but he knows that it can only mask it partially… and only for so long.

The duo, curled up before the fire and talking in low but happy tones, turn towards him with surprising quickness. Masbath opens his mouth to inquire after his haggard expression, but Ichabod cannot bring himself to stay downstairs any longer… not when someone could overhear.

Once ensconced inside, Ichabod curls up on his bed and lets the blanket fall slightly, but he just can't bring himself to speak. So, Katrina sits beside him, taking a hand into hers and offering up a sweet, reassuring smile. “What’s wrong?” she asks, her tone purposely level but still kind.

"This…" Ichabod drops his gaze to his lap, body shaking as turbulant fear wracks his spine. "This needs to stay a secret between us… We need to be quiet, and no one… no one can know."

Ichabod lets out a little contented sound when Masbath’s soft, non-orientated scent colors with just a hint of hickory wood, comforting and soothing in the way that younglings just can… Ichabod is sure that Masbath will orient soon, and he'd be more than surprised if he was anything other than beta.

With a small nod, Ichabod lets out another shaky breath and continues. “I-I need your help… I… They were damaged… and I-I can’t…” His shaking fingers pull off the damaged patch, and honeysuckle and mint slide into the air with fervour.

“You’re an omega!” Masbath cries, only to quickly cover his mouth, suddenly remembering that he was asked to be quiet when Ichabod’s eyes widened with fear. "Sorry!" He slinks closer, head dropped slightly in what he hopes is a non-threatening manner.

After a moment of staring at the boy, Ichabod reaches out and pulls  _ his _ youngling to his chest with a quiet rumbling purr. His body relaxes minutely when Masbath’s scent helps push the sweetness of his own out of his mind… but he can't push it away for long, not when Katrina looks so worried.

"What do you need us to do?" she asks, and there's just enough shake that Ichabod knows that she understands… He's in danger.

A shuddering sigh breaks past his lips, stilling the purr in his chest. "I can make more… if I can find the ingredients… I-I can make a list. If you'd help me look… I would be most grateful."

"Ingredients for what?" Masbath chirps, his eyes wide and bright with curiosity and affection for the omega.

A ghost of a smile crosses Ichabod's face; he remembers how little this made sense to him when he was young and non-oriented… It didn't seem to matter then, but it did… His mother knew he'd be an omega; how could she not when he'd been born with a vagina as well as a penis… You can't hide omega males and alpha females from their caretakers… It's not like omega females and alpha males who are so goddamned similar to betas before orientation… No, it wouldn't be drilled into a young boy who's guaranteed safety from the fear an omega knows.

"Scent blockers and heat suppressants," Ichabod answers quickly.

Katrina's worried expression darkens significantly. "You're going into heat?"

"Yes," Ichabod responds flatly; he cannot find it in his heart to fret about that detail any further… it will do him no good to worry when his time will be much better spent searching. "I have at least a week, perhaps two if we're lucky… Regardless, I need your help now if we want to avoid all of this unpleasantness and get to the bottom of the murders."

* * *

On his way out of the house, Ichabod is quite surprised to find Lady Van Tassel just coming in with her hair neatly braided in twin plaits and a comfortable yet extravagant gown dusted with dirt and beheaded wildflowers. "I like your perfume!" she complements in what seems to be a genuine manner, her smile so warm as she brushes past him and into the parlor.

Regardless, it brings a slight blush to Ichabod's cheeks, and he responds back with a quiet, "thank you."

He intends to put that interaction out of his mind; it would likely be for the best; but then he recalls her scent… He doesn't know why he was paying attention; perhaps because he's so terrified about his own… but regardless, he smells it: wood ash, cloves and ginger root. He's sure if he got a better smell beneath the flowers she wears as perfume, he'd smell burnt sage… He doesn't know why, but Lady Van Tassel is lying about being a beta.

But he supposes that it's none of his business… after all, it'd be quite hypocritical if he beleaguered what makes another omega feel safe.

No, it's best if he puts it out of his mind, other than to ask Katrina to raid a bit of her spice cupboard… just enough to give him some safety. He'll make do with what he can find.


	5. Bitter Roots

They are sitting together that next morning, looking over the lists that Ichabod had made the night before after going out to peruse the town and talk to the midwife, Beth Killian. He'd of course asked to borrow Gunpowder that next day but also had asked Beth what plants grew naturally around there.

Somehow this has led to a discussion of medicine, albeit one more basic than his level, but still an enjoyable conversation to be had… until Masbath asks it.

"Do you believe in magic, Ichabod?"

Ichabod winces; he cannot help it. "I believe in what can be proven…" There's a stinging pain in his palms, a phantom memory… nothing more. "But yes. To a certain degree, I do." As he passes the final sheets over to Masbath and Katrina, complete with little intricate drawings, he decides to lay another card out on the table. "My mother was a white witch… She's the one who taught me what herbs were good for what conditions, and how to keep myself and my garden in good health."

"You have a garden?" Katrina interjects, clearly excited at the prospect.

"Yes. And an indoor one at that. I do not like being at the mercy of spice traders and the incoming crops."

"Could you teach me?" she continues, not seeming to grasp the position that would put all three of them in.

"Perhaps…" Ichabod straightens his collar and stands up, trying to ensure that the damaged scent blocker is covered completely. "I've never taught anyone else what I know… and most could put you in danger if the church should suspect…"

Masbath takes his hand and murmurs, "your mother was killed by them, wasn't she?"

Ichabod nods slowly and squeezes the youngling's hand back. "By my father in fact… so I do not make this statement lightly, magic is dangerous and not just because it can be misused."

* * *

The Western Woods is far less spookier with the sunlight filtering in than it was on the day the body of Masbath Sr. was treated to a funeral of worried men with guns and jumpy hearts. There are dozens of chirping birds flitting about, diving and twisting through the air in a ballet of feasting. At one point, he sees a doe peeking out from behind the bushes, seemingly unperturbed by his presence despite the gun at his hip; he blames his leaking scent.

He'd found fresh stinging nettles (not his favorite to pick, but he'd been ready with an extra set of gloves), elder bark, and red trillium off all things (not that this is a necessary ingredient, but it is good to have nonetheless). Still despite that luck, he doesn't find anything else he needs before the sun begins to set… He's tempted to keep searching, but Gunpowder grows antsier with the lengthening shadows. So they head back, taking a longer way out than normal.

When they break through the trees, Ichabod spots a figure pushing a small cart away from town, and the curiosity cannot be ignored. He and Gunpowder pull up beside the figure, Magistrate Philipse who looks a half-second from a heart attack.

"Running away?" Ichabod inquires and quickly dismounts Gunpowder to stand on equal footing with the fat man… He finds that this is the easiest way to have a conversation without the other party getting defensive; he knows how small he is compared to most of the men in this town, and he knows that it doesn't make him look all that imposing.

"You should be too," Philipse replies, hands shaking and one curling around the cross around his neck.

"Why?"

"The horseman…"

Ichabod feels a familiar surge of anger and annoyance. "For the last time, there is no horseman!"

But oh, how wrong that statement is… Ichabod never thought he would see someone be beheaded by a man so quickly before… He never thought that he would find himself stranded on the ground, his horse having fled and a man's disembodied head between his legs...

There’s a soft scent in the air, one that promises kindness and compassion… one that shouldn’t exist in this realm dripping with the scent of autumn leaves, rotting corpses and fresh blood.

It’s wisteria.

Ichabod watches with wide eyes as the horseman seems to regard him with curiosity for a moment before riding towards him at breakneck speed. The magistrate’s head is plucked from the ground by a blade just inches from the omega’s flesh, and Ichabod promptly faints.


	6. Glass Houses

Having one's belief shattered is usually a mind fracturing experience, and it's for this reason that Van Tassel is so surprised when Ichabod comes downstairs a couple hours after having a small mental breakdown. "We thought you'd gone round the bend!" he cries, seemingly relieved at the constable’s put together appearance.

Ichabod internally chuckles, smooths out his coat and shirt and walks down the stairs with the practiced gait of someone born into money. "Gentlemen, I have faced my fears and am ready to get back to work. I will learn what brings this specter back from the grave and return it to hell."

"You mean to fight a ghost?"

With a nod, Ichabod comes to a stop before the remaining town heads and states quite definitely, "if I must, I will… but for now I will require some able-bodied men to come with me into the Western Woods."

Ichabod’s not surprised when only Masbath volunteers… and he's also not surprised when Katrina tags along.

* * *

"So what are we looking for?" Masbath asks and pushes his mare to ride closer to Ichabod; Katrina had taken lead almost immediately as she and Masbath did not want Ichabod to be in the outskirts of their party.

The omega looks exhausted but curious, but neither Katrina or Masbath want to try and make him take a rest. Ichabod has too much to do… and too much on his mind. "We're looking for the horseman's grave… and if we can find the remaining herbs I need, then we will be in perfect shape."

"And where is the horseman's grave exactly?" Katrina inquires.

"I'm not entirely sure," he replies, "but I was able to do a bit of divining this morning." At Katrina's gleeful sound, he gives her a sharp look and continues, "that I am not teaching you. It gives me enough of a headache, and it's barely useful half of the time."

"Ichabod~! Please~?"

"No." Ichabod scratches at his scent gland; the broken patches are itchier than normal. "Not only are you too young, I only promised to teach you things that will keep you and a garden in good health. You'll be lucky if we ever go over protective charms."

Masbath quickly hushes them, and when at last they turn to look at him, he asks, "did you hear that?"

"No," Ichabod replies.

"Exactly… it's completely silent."

With that utterance, Ichabod goes completely still and sniffs at the air. "Katrina, let me ahead of you… I think I know where we are."

Down the old indian trail they walk as Ichabod remembers the faint warnings of the crone he'd spoken to whilst divining. He remembers her riddled words of a deal made to bring back the dead and the way she had smiled as she helped him seek out the spirit to guide his way. Down the old indian trail, the plants wither away… nothing persists as they grow ever closer to the gnarled black tree in the distance- the Tree of the Dead.

"We're here," he tosses back and jumps off Gunpowder's back, careful to tie the old man up lest he wander away. "It's bigger than I thought…"

Ichabod can hear Katrina and Masbath dismount behind him, but he's too enthralled by the sight before him. He wants to inspect… to test… to know… he's so curious… so enticed by a force older than he...

“It’s odd,” Ichabod grouses, not expecting for anyone to ask him to explain, but neither Katrina or Masbath are in the mood for quiet contemplation.

“What is?” Katrina asks and steps closer to the tree, closer to the root where Ichabod stands with his fingers tracing into the bark.

He scratches lightly, and the scent spirals into the air around him, just as vivid as a living person’s. “It smells like rust… and gunpowder…” He looks around for the bloom that must be supplying that heady note, but there’s nothing… Nothing alive around the tree but them. “And wisteria.”

The world around them is darker than it once was, not just from the approaching twilight, but this place does not offer sanctuary to the intruders. This is a place of oppressive silence and memories of misery and hatred. It presses close to their throats and spooks the horses into pulling at their tack with heavy strides.

And he feels… safe?

Still, Ichabod presses onward up the gnarled roots until he's standing before the very sword that had removed Philipse's head from between his legs. He finds his fingers drawn towards the immaculate silver handle, towards the snake's gleaming red eyes that shine like fresh blood… but he stops when the wisteria grows heavier in the air, calling him to unearth the grave… to see the man who'd been forsaken his last rites… who'd been buried in a shallow grave, loosely unmarked and uncared for.

"Masbath," he calls, "toss me the shovel."

When the boy does as he bade, keeping far enough away for him and Katrina not to be bewitched into touching the bleeding wound under the bark, Ichabod begins to dig… until at last he finds the remains… the man who'd terrified so many… is missing his head.

Ichabod quickly covers the bones up, not wanting to further the disgrace brough to the Hessian’s corpse. Once he's done, he bounds down the tree to the others 

"The head has been taken."

"What?" Katrina's eyes are so wide with curious innocence… she is still so young…

Ichabod turns back to look at the tree once with something akin to grief, but he is so sure of what has been done… and what must happen to fix this mess. "Someone has stolen his head… and they are likely controlling him. He's going to keep killing people, taking their heads until his is returned."

There's a thunderclap in the sky overhead, and the branches sway in the wind. The black tree screams with the voices of the damned… Then it begins to split, showing off a visceral hole lined with gore and a nearly clear membrane. At the bottom, beyond the veil of the dead and the living are 5 heads, oozing blood… The smell of fear winds through the clearing, but Ichabod is not afraid… not for himself anyway.

Then the membrane stretches as hooves tear through the viscera, and the Hessian's monstrous horse, Daredevil leaps through the gaping maw. Both the headless rider and the horse stare at them for a moment before dashing away…

Ichabod knows for certain then.

"You two, head back to the Van Tassel estate and stay out of sight!"

"What about you?!" Masbath cries, but Ichabod cannot bring himself to stop for a moment to comfort his youngling, not when he could perhaps save others.

"He's not after me… and he's not after either of you." With that, Ichabod mounts Gunpowder and takes off after the black stallion, hoping that he'll get there in time.

* * *

Ichabod can hear the screaming of a young boy.

He pushes Gunpowder on faster and clings desperately to the pommel as he kicks into gears that he hadn't accessed in ages. 

By the time Ichabod darts through the trees and can make out the source of the screaming, he knows that it's too late to save whoever had been targeted… He can see Brom engaging the horseman in a very one-sided battle… and he decides then, if he can't save the intended victim, he can save Brom.

"It's not after us," Ichabod hisses, and his fingers dig into the flesh of Brom's arm, stilling the alpha from where he'd been reaching for the scythes.

"Ichabod… you're scent…" Brom shakes his head rapidly and pushes the smaller man out of his way. "He might not be after me, but I'm stopping him right now."

"How? All you're going to do is get yourself killed!"

Brom snarls and runs after the horseman anyway, pushing down the part of him that wants to listen to Ichabod, that knows he's probably right. 

* * *

  
  


The sword is hotter than the flames of hell, cauterizing the wound as it sinks into his flesh. Ichabod is screaming… and so is Brom. They are are screaming, but they can do nothing against the Hessian… nothing works...

He watches as Brom is thrown into the brook and doesn't rise… He hopes that Brom is alive… But the night is fading fast into something darker...

Ichabod isn't sure if it's the pain or hysteria of the night that causes it, but he’s so sure that the horseman paused and checked out Ichabod's wound before leaving both he and Brom behind.


	7. Throwing Stones

_ “Ichabod… You're such a good boy." The hand in his hair curls in harder; it hurts! "Always so eager to please me, aren't you?" The grip around his throat tightens. "Not like that whore that birthed you…" He shakes, and his eyes open wide in the darkness. His chest hurts… it feels like someone stabbed him! "You'll be such a good mommy one day… won't you, Ichabod?" _

Ichabod shrieks and pitches forward, nearly knocking his head against Dr. Lancaster. He shuffles backwards against the headboard, wanting to get away from the hand he can still feel on his skin… it isn't real; he knows that… but still…

"Constable Crane." The roughshod voice draws Ichabod out of his head slightly, and he slowly looks up at the doctor.

"How l-ong was I out?" Ichabod asks, wincing when his voice cracks; his lips are just as dry, but he can feel sweat along his brow and spine.

"Three days," Lancaster replies. "You're lucky the wound was cauterized and that it didn't catch anything important on the way in."

Ichabod frowns, mind frantically racing to recall what happened before. "What of Brom and the Killians?"

Lancaster sighs and takes a seat on the edge of the bed, the old beta trying his best to be comforting. "Brom took a nasty blow to the head, but he woke up yesterday afternoon. He's already returning to light work… Thomas Killian is unharmed physically, but he will undoubtedly have lasting psychological trauma… As for his parents, the horseman killed them and took their heads."

There's a cold pit in Ichabod’s stomach when he thinks of the rambunctious little boy who'd clung to him like a leech when he'd last visited Beth. "Who will take care of Thomas?"

"That is yet undecided… For now, he's staying with Beth's brother, Colin… and Thomas has been adamant about letting you know that his parents would have wanted you to take Gunpowder for the rest of your time here."

"What?" Ichabod blinks rapidly. "Why would they? They have family… I know a horse is worth a lot…"

"Yes, it is, but the Killian's truly liked having you around… Beth especially. She told me that they were thinking about asking you to stay with them after the case was over, until you were ready to return to New York…" Lancaster sighs lowly and stares right into the younger's eyes. "And, with your condition, it wouldn't be out of line to provide you safety."

There's fear in Ichabod’s gaze when he croaks out, "c-condition?"

"Beth had her suspicions, Constable Crane… especially after you came to see her about local herbs." Ichabod stiffens considerably. "She swore me to secrecy, but she wanted to get a second opinion… have someone else watch out for you."

"I'm fine."

"I found the patch you've been using to hide your scent." Ichabod stiffens further, and without his permission, he starts to curl up into himself. "I know… and as a doctor, the only one in town, I have to ask you to be careful. You're very close to a fragile state."

It's clear that Dr. Lancaster is not used to having an omega give responses of ferality; otherwise, the elderly man wouldn't look so terrified at having Ichabod physically snap at him, canines beared in a rare form of aggression. He certainly would have known that Ichabod is very unlikely to actually attack him… especially with his heat still a few days out. But Lancaster is not used to such responses, and so it isn't until Ichabod goes back into his blanket cocoon that he feels able to breathe.

Ichabod’s dark eyes look almost black in the dim lighting, somehow darker than any time before, and when at last he speaks, the sharpened points of his canines catch at his lips, leaving them redder with the friction. "I am far from fragile, Dr. Lancaster, and I will warn you this once not to treat me with such disrespect."

"Constable Crane-"

"I mean it. I came here to do a job, and I intend to do it, regardless of your sensibilities about the matter…" A thought occurs to Ichabod in that moment, and he wonders if he's made too large of a misstep. "But I must insist that you keep my orientation a secret…"

"Of course," Lancaster replies and dips his head submissively. "Doctor patient privileges… I won't tell a soul without your permission."

Ichabod sighs with relief. "Than-"

"However-" Ichabod bristles at that word. "-I would like you to take it easy for at least the rest of the day."

"Why?"

Lancaster doesn't look impressed. "You were stabbed… and your fever finally broke last night."

Ichabod scoffs but acquiesces. "Fine… I will do my best to remain indoors…"

"Thank you… would you like me to send for Young Masbath and perhaps Katrina?"

"Please… to both…"

* * *

Masbath returns less than ten minutes after Lancaster leaves with arms filled with wild-picked herbs and flowers; while it seems that he is still two ingredients shy of making adequate heat suppressants, the things Masbath brought are at the very least beautiful if not medically useful. These things are arranged around the room with an archaic purpose that no living human truly understands… but they are arranged so quickly and so well that the room feels more homey to the makeshift family.

Masbath is careful when he gives into Ichabod’s calling chuffs, but the moment the young boy settles into the embrace, the tension in their bodies visibly decreases. His head rests beneath Ichabod's chin, causing him to curl up slightly, to let Ichabod protect him… to let the omega command the nest.

This is the sight Katrina comes up to with her arms also laden with gifts, although these gifts are more secretive… more arcane in nature. She stashes the books on magic beneath the bed with her first attempt at a protection sachet. Another couple of books bear all she could think of about the hollow… all she could think of to figure out who stole the head and why.

"Katrina," Ichabod trills and pats the bed. "Nest is fine… sleep…"

Katrina waits a moment more; there's something she needs to say; but then Ichabod chuffs lowly. She finds herself curled up around Masbath and beneath Ichabod's protective posturing. "Brom knows," she whispers and buries her face into the bed. "I don't know how, but he does."

Ichabod cards a hand through her hair with gentle, methodical strokes. "I know… Lancaster does too…"

"What do we do?" Masbath whimpers, causing Ichabod to purr loudly.

"We continue on," he replies, "and I'll deal with it as I need to…"


	8. Introspection and Allyship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why but I could not remember Lady Van Tassel's first name to save my soul. It's Mary btw.

“Lady Van Tassel… May I have a moment?”

The lady looks up at Ichabod with a soft expression and excuses herself from the maids: Sarah and Georgina. She takes his offered arm and makes little noise as he leads her outside to the garden and the tea table out there.

When he pulls out the chair for her, a perfect gentleman despite the abrasive way she's seen him treat many of the townsfolk… especially the alphas, she finds herself wondering if she should extend him a courtesy few have. "Constable Crane."

He looks up at her with wide eyes, clearly she had not been expecting her to speak first. "Yes, my lady?"

She finds herself smiling easily, and with a pat upon his ungloved hand, she says, "I would like for you to use my common name, Mary from now on."

When he smiles back, there's a glow about him that turns his bitter scent of wood ash, burnt sage and cloves just a tad sweeter… like fresh honeysuckle. "Then I insist you call me Ichabod, my lady Mary."

There’s a hot fire flush blooming on her cheeks, and Mary almost wishes that she was a younger woman, that she could chase a man as sweet as Ichabod is. “Then Ichabod I shall call you.” When his cheeks pink as well, she wonders if it would be worth it to ask Baltus for a younger lover… "What did you wish to talk about?" Mary finally asks, too curious to put it off longer, even if the conversation has been more than pleasant. And immediately afterwards, she wishes she hadn't done so.

Ichabod's face grows a bit stony… and she can see him bite at his lips and fidget with the buttons on his coat sleeves. "I… I have a question to ask of you. I know you probably won't answer, and feel free not to… but I ask that you keep this conversation a secret regardless."

Mary makes a questioning noise but acquiesces nonetheless. "It will remain between us."

Ichabod takes a shuddering breath, but he maintains eye contact; he looks to be on the verge of crying. "Lady Van- Mary… are you manipulating your scent too?"

The breath catches in Mary’s throat… She feels sick… She wants to deny it… She wants to- wait. "Too?" She looks up at his frightened face and it makes sense… the honeysuckle… the mint… the fresh autumn leaves. "You're an omega…"

Ichabod flinches as if he'd been struck. "Eh, yes… that's why I wanted to know if you're hiding your orientation too. Your scent is the same base palate as my fake one. If you are, it's none of my business why you are. It would be hypocritical of me to begrudge you that. So, that was what I wanted to talk about and you-"

Mary grabs the hand that’s scoring lines into the pale back of the other and cradles it in hers. "Ichabod Crane." He looks back up at her. "Yes. I am hiding too… and thank you." He looks at her askance. "Thank you for telling me… That was very brave."

Ichabod laughs lowly, awkwardly, but he looks more at peace than he had a moment earlier; Mary counts that as a win.

* * *

Lady Mary Van Tassel is nothing if not a methodical woman. She likes things to be planned out to the most intricate detail. She likes things to be broken down into simple little lines. She does not like having to double and triple check irregularities and worry about what could happen if those irregularities collide.

In other words, Mary is worried about Ichabod Crane.

So, it should be no surprise when she seeks out the younger man in the early mornings and late at night to see if he's eating or if he needs anything. Ichabod takes to her gentle needling about as well as can be expected from the prickly constable, but after a bit of prodding, he usually gives into her insistence that he just eat  _ something. _

It's during one of these battles that Baltus comes dashing into the kitchen with a conflicted and worried expression on his face. "Notary Hardinbrook has killed himself!" Mary can see the way Ichabod is floored by such news, and she wonders if he blames himself. She knows that he, Masbath and Katrina had gone snooping in the old man's records and found something that had Katrina and Ichabod quarreling into the night.

"My dear boy," Baltus continues, "Reverend Steenwyck is calling a meeting tonight to ask for grievances about you… He means to blame you for Hardinbrook, Phillipse and the Killians. You should leave immediately…"

Ichabod pulls himself into a steel straight pose and sets his mouth in an equally straight line. "I apologize Van Tassel, but I will have to decline your advice… I came here to do a job, and I will be staying until it is done or I am dead."

* * *

Mary asks Baltus to accompany her out to the field where feverfew and yarrow still cling to life, citing a worry about running out once winter hits. He comes obligingly, as he always does, but his eyes are on the treeline and his mind on the time. “We need to go soon, Mary,” he chastises, but his words are only of love… Yes, Baltus loves her, even knowing what she is.

Perhaps in another life, she and Baltus… and perhaps young Ichabod could have had a lovely little house together. Perhaps, he could have helped her convince the constable that he belongs in the hollow… with them.

“Alright… Alright,” Mary replies and gathers a few last stems before securing it all in the basket she’d prepared. She’s just taken her place behind him when the horseman comes out of the trees.

Baltus yells at her to hold on, and their stallion races back into town like a being possessed. He’s yelling at the townsfolk that Hessian is coming and reassuring Mary that they will make it to the church… and they do.

Mary spots Masbath and Ichabod peeking out of a nearby shed, and she waves to them, calling out, “Ichabod, come on!” They run to her and follow her inside to Katrina and Baltus… to safety within the hallowed grounds.

The church is in chaos... People are screaming, men and women and children all with fear and panic. Guns are going off left and right. Many are looking to their leaders for strength, but there’s too much squabbling… too much to atone for in what could very well be their final moments.

The breaking point is so close at hand… And then it comes.

Dr. Lancaster opens his mouth and tells Baltus, “your four friends have deceived you…” He never gets another word out before Steenwyck is bludgeoning him in the head with the heavy wooden cross. Dr. Lancaster looks at Ichabod with such remorse in those last moments, and Steenwyck reels back from the force of the blow… but then he’s dying upon the floor of a gunshot wound.

The gun which was stolen from Ichabod looks wrong in her husband’s hand; he’s not a fighter… not a scrapper… not man trained to take and use violence as necessary… There’s no voice in her throat and no movement in Ichabod’s body as they watch Baltus ascend the steps of the pulpit… as he tries to keep the frightened villagers away… as he stands before the giant window bearing a stained-glass cross… as a harpoon made from a fencepost stabs into his body.

Mary doesn’t even wait for Baltus’s body to be pulled through the window before she’s dragging Ichabod out into the night.


	9. Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: beginnings of sexual assault that will continue into next chapter.

Consciousness returns slowly unlike the many times Ichabod's fainted in the past. His eyelids are heavy, and he wants to rub the sleep from them. His shoulders ache when he tries, but it takes far longer than normal for him to figure out why. His hands are tied together over his head, but there’s enough slack that he can wiggle them slightly.

Slowly, he opens his eyes to the windmill's interior, and he can hear a humming voice. It's hot in here… no… it's him.

His body burns, and with a whimpering cry, he turns his head into his arm. There’s a throbbing in his stomach, spiking pains and needling desire that seek to haze his mind until he'll ask…

"Oh, sweetheart…"

Ichabod opens his eyes again, not that he remembers closing them to find Mary kneeling beside him with a damp cloth in her hand. "Wh-what happened?" he croaks. "Why am I… tied up?"

Mary smiles, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "I don't want you to hurt yourself." She runs the cloth over his brow and lets out a loud, pleased growl when he presses his face into it. "You're in heat, Ichabod."

As if his body was waiting to hear those words, he's suddenly aware of the throbbing between his legs and the slick dripping from his aching cunt. "Mary…" he whines, "what did you do?" His hips jerk upwards of their own accord, seeking out some sort of friction against his full cock, but no friction comes.

Mary's smile deepens before she leans down to lick into his panting mouth, drawing whining keens from the constable when she finally kisses him hard. She moves to straddle him, her heavy skirt hiding the way he rolls his hips up to meet hers. It hides the way his thighs tremble at the friction, and the slow, measured way she provides it.

Then Ichabod feels her hard cock grind against his stomach. 

"You're… an al-pha?"

Mary grins widely, sharp teeth bared in something between a promise and a threat. "Yes, I am," she purrs and leans down to press open-mouthed kisses along his neck and make little licks against his scent gland. She longs to bite deeply in it, but she knows that it wouldn't take… not yet at least. "And with luck… I'll be your alpha."

Ichabod shakes his head, even as a broken, wrecked sound leaves his mouth. "No! I do-n't want - hah - an al-pha!"

Mary laughs, the sound cold and amused. "Give it time, sweetheart… You'll come to love me…" She brushes the hair from his sweaty face and grinds her hips down harshly, dragging her cock against him in a threat. "You'll crave my touch… and I'll fuck you full of pups." She licks at the shell of his ear before pressing open mouthed kisses along his face. "You'll be mine, Ichabod… You'll be Ichabod Van Tassel."

"N-no…" Ichabod tries to keep the noises from leaving his throat, but he's so wet, soaking through his trousers and producing a squelching sound when he thrusts against her. "I… I can’t… I wo-n’t…"

“Oh, but you will…” She nips at his shoulder before smoothing it over with the flat of her tongue. “You belong to me, Ichabod… You’re mine.”

“No…” He squeezes his eyes shut tight and fights to keep his body still, to hide the shameful display. “I don’t be-long to a-anyone.”

She laughs, a low haughty tone that makes Ichabod feel sick; she’s humoring him. “Of course not… Not yet at least.” She grinds her hips down harder against him and rips a keening cry from his throat. “You’re so needy…”

Stomping feet descend down into the windmill proper, pulling Ichabod’s attention away from Mary and the aching desire that’s growing harder and harder to ignore. He sees the Hessian standing there, seeming to stare at them.

“He’s going to help me out for a bit,” Mary whispers, “and then I’m going to have him cut off that pathetic girl child’s head.” She grabs ahold of Ichabod’s bound hands and gestures for the Hessian to take them; it doesn’t take long for the horseman to do so. “And then the Van Tassel fortune will be mine, and I can take care of you… You’ll be such a good momma, Ichabod… I know you will.”

Ichabod gives her a wide-eyed look of terror; he wants to scream… but then the smell of wisteria crawls over his senses, dulling the panic and soothing the fearful ache in his head. He looks up at the horseman as his eyes flutter shut. His breathing’s growing more and more rapid with each passing second. “Please…” he breathes, so low that Mary can’t hear him, but the Hessian seems to.

The grip on his wrists grows tighter but not painful, and for a moment, he feels… safe.

“Oh, what a pretty sound!” Mary cries, a horrid smile contorting her kind face.

And Ichabod realizes just what he’s done: he just quailed for the Hessian.


	10. Quailing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for how long this took. School's been a bit busy... and then I lost my internet in a lightening storm... so bumming off family for rn.

Ichabod turns his face into his arm and squeezes his eyes so tight. Desperate sounds spill from his lips like gossip from elderly ladies at their weekly luncheons. It’s been a bit since he’s even touched himself, his libido being all but quelled by agitation at his fellow officers and the mystery of why the Hessian has risen.

He certainly hadn’t expected to learn this way.

Mary leans down over his heaving chest, her plumped lips gleaming as she licks them, never abandoning her staring contest with Ichabod. She clenches around his cock and grins with devilish delight when he sobs, tossing his head and arching his back.

“I loved Baltus,” she whispers before dragging her tongue down his neck and teasing sensitive skin with teeth. “I almost wish…” Her nails bite sharply into his waist. “...that you and- _ hah _ -he and I could have been… ngh… together… but he had to go.”

“Wh-why?” Ichabod whines through a tongue that feels just a tad too large and the writhing in his guts.

As Mary bounces on Ichabod, she never falters in her tale of woe and revenge. She never spares a thought to the Hessian listening to her admit to selling her soul just for the chance to get revenge… or how she knew what would happen when she broke that stick… when she got him killed.

When the Hessian’s grip tightens both in response to the tale and sound’s being ripped out of the omega’s mouth, Ichabod lets out a quail and bends to the taller man’s will.

“I think he likes you,” Mary croons. “Do you think he can still ‘get it up’?”

Ichabod doesn’t know why that idea fills him with heat… but he wants it. He wants to be split open on the Hessian’s cock, filled over and over again until he’s nothing more than a gaping hole oozing semen all over the ground. “Ma-ry… plea-se!” His cunt is aching, throbbing to feel something inside, even something as undaunting and unsatisfying as a single finger; he’ll do anything… anything to just make it stop! “Ma-ry~!”

There’s a soft crackling sound… perhaps footsteps on loose scatterings of grain? It’s so loud, like a gunshot through the otherwise silent windmill, alerting other occupants.

Mary quickly pushes herself off of Ichabod, roughly covering up the young man’s indecency as she and the Hessian realize what made the noise. “So eager to die,” Mary snaps. “Hessian… kill them.”

It’s only when he hears a frightened scream that Ichabod’s able to convince his body to work… to let him see who wandered into this mess. There’s a shock of long blond hair… a tall brunette man… and a little boy; Ichabod’s little boy: Katrina, Brom and Masbath...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter wraps up the movie, and then we move into full on Hessian/Ichabod


	11. White

He's caught between a scream and a sob, his mind split into two agonizing directions. His body is screaming for Mary or Brom… or the Hessian to pin him to the ground and fuck him half to death. But the fear in his heart is just able to edge out the heat pulsing under his skin.

He needs to help.

He hears Katrina's terrified shout.

What's he supposed to do?

He hears Masbath's quick footsteps across the way.

There has to be something!

He hears Brom's war cry.

...

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees it, a strange, wicked-looking knife smeared with fresh blood. It's just a few paces behind Mary and a few more paces from a skull with sharp teeth.

_ 'The Hessian's… if he gets it back, he should stop… Right?' _

Regardless, Ichabod makes his choice.

* * *

Mary grins viciously at the fleeting sights of the intruders trying to get away from the Hessian. A part of her wants to get back to Ichabod, to feel him shake and buck under her touch and watch him break apart while the Hessian kills his friends… but another part wants to spare Ichabod that twisted fantasy… it would undoubtedly break him far too fast.

A strange, sawing sound eventually catches her attention, and she turns quickly to find Ichabod tearing himself free of the rope.

Mary snarls and crashes into the omega’s back once he's free and heading for the skull. "Such a bad boy," she hisses, pushing herself against the man's ass with bruising force.

"Guh!" Ichabod makes a choked noise when he feels the woman's hips flush with him, when he feels that hard length against his ass. A pulse in his quivering cunt sends more slick down his thighs and a tempestuous shiver down his spine. “Get… off of… me,” he grits out and tries to buck the alpha off.

“Why would I?” she replies, one hand reaching up towards his face… or perhaps the blade still clenched tightly in his fist. “You are mine after all.”

“Go to hell!” While the knife in her arm is enough to shock the widow, it’s the elbow to the face that knocks Mary off of Ichabod and gives the constable the repreve he needs to grab the skull. “Horseman!” he shouts, drawing the creature’s attention as he struggles to his feet. It stops just a few inches from grabbing Katrina by her hair; it stops trying to kill the girl at the sound of his voice alone. “I believe this is yours!”

The moment the skull comes into the Hessian’s being, Ichabod can feel a change in the air. It’s the static of a lightning storm, the winter snap before the beginning of spring, the clash of two battleworn stags, the dark of an open grave… It’s an inevitability realized at last...

The air sings of wisteria for just a moment before crashing deeply into the rust and gunpowder as a thunderous rage sweeps out across the windmill. The doors swing open to Daredevil’s hooves as a violent wind rocks the building and tosses the blades around. Mary is staring, open-mouthed, horrified at the being she’d unleashed upon the hollow; she’d known what awaited her once the head would be returned… once the horseman had been granted his freedom.

The debt must be paid.

The bending of flesh: sinew and muscle and skin where none had been found is hypnotic and grotesque… and oh, how Ichabod cannot bring himself to look away. The man it leaves behind is beautiful in a frightening, monstrous way that leaves the omega breathless before the Hessian’s piercing gaze… By God, he wants to kiss him.

His fingers and hands and body trembles beneath those eyes; he feels dissected and remade again and again until at last, Mary is the object of attention.

She squeaks and tries to back away, tries to hide herself from the spirit she’d raised, but the Hessian has no need for cat and mouse games now. She’s nothing to his monstrous strength, nothing but a sack of meat to be carried into hell, and despite her best efforts, she’s pulled across the horse, across his lap as the mercenary gives Ichabod one last hungry look.

As soon as Daredevil had come, the stallion vanishes, taking Mary and the Horseman with it as though they’d never been there.

“Ichabod!” Katrina’s shout has him turning, has him looking at her and Masbath and Brom as they run across the messy floor. He's shaking; he wants to run to them, to embrace his youngling, to soothe the hurt in Katrina's scalp, to assess the cut across Brom's cheek…

With an aborted mewl, he drops to his hands and knees, his fingers scraping against the dirty floor. Peering up through long lashes, he fixes Brom with a barely masked look of desperation. "Brom," he hisses, thankful that Katrina has kept Jonathan away for the moment. “Please… Ple _ ase! I can’t take this…” _

"Ichabod…" Brom moves to kneel beside him, to ask the constable if he's  _ sure,  _ but the horseman has a different idea.

The wind whips through the windmill, knocking Brom down and away from Ichabod as a dark figure suddenly appears out of the shadows. The wisteria slides through the air alongside the potent smell of gunpowder and rust, and Ichabod’s whining sharply at the spasming throb in his loins. He wants it… He wants him… He wants… He wants… He  _ wants! _

The Hessian quickly slings Ichabod across the saddle and glares daggers at the human alpha before vanishing into the night.

So very terrified and very stressed over this whole ordeal, Ichabod takes one last look at the Hessian’s face in the moonlight and promptly faints.


	12. Bewitching

He's warm when he wakes, warmer than normal but not broiling in his own skin.

His body aches, but the bed is soft…

"Ichabod Crane…"

An unfamiliar voice has him jolting up in fear to find himself laying in a pile of furs before a strangely ethereal man… the formerly headless horseman. The night before comes back in waves, dredging up fear and loathing and relief and shame with each new thought… but the wisteria, buried under rust calms the worst of his nerves.

_ "Wie geht es dir?"  _ After a moment, the Hessian shakes his head and asks, "how are you?"

"Okay… are you going… to violate me too?" Ichabod doesn't look up, doesn't see the widened eyes. _ "Hast du vor, mich auch zu verletzen?" _

_ "Nein…"  _ Ichabod jumps when a hand touches his left arm, sliding down to his wrist. "I… am sorry for what she has done… I am sorry for not helping." He abruptly lets go, causing the constable to look at him again. "I know it may not seem… the best choice, but you are safe here." He rocks backwards on his heels and stands, careful not to lord his height over the omega. "There are some things not even I would do…"

Dark, curious eyes follow every movement the Hessian makes as he pads across the strange living space, only stealing fleeting glances to further investigate the space. The floors are made with dark wood that looks impossibly smooth, and the walls are rough, irregularly-shaped stones. The ceiling is some strange combination of tree branches (...or roots?) and plaster, a ridiculous feat that is certainly aided by the heavy hum of magic. He deduces that they must be under (or beyond… or inside?) the Tree of the Dead.

Against the far wall where the Hessian resides, stirring something in a simmering pot, there’s a small bookshelf and a worn armchair. In the flickering light of the fireplace, he can see a glass ornament on the tiny, black side table; if he tilts his head just right, it vaguely resembles a penis.

"Horseman…?"

"Christaan."

Ichabod blinks. "Huh?"

The Hessian turns slightly to meet the constable’s eyes. "My name is Christaan. You may call me by it."

With a short nod, Ichabod begins again, "Christaan… why did you bring me here?"

With a low, measured sigh, Christaan drops his head slightly. "Safety… I owe at least that to you." Slowly, he stands and grabs the glass ornament before padding back to Ichabod's side. "I would like you to have this."

Without really stopping to look at it, Ichabod accepts the glass only to reel with how heavy it is… and what it undoubtedly is. "...a dildo?"

Christaan chuckles lowly and a bit awkwardly. "Should be better than nothing, right?" When Ichabod does little more than nod, the Hessian considers the matter closed. "For now, you should eat."


	13. Decisions

There’s a shake in his voice. “Oh God, ple-ase~.” His lips are damp with spit from the way his tongue had wrapped around smooth glass. “Ngh!” His eyes are shut tightly, long lashes damp with pleasured tears. 

Ichabod hadn’t been sure about the ‘gift’, hadn’t been sure if he could bring himself to use it, especially in the Tree of the Dead. But the casual pulse of heat whispered such sweet words of encouragement…  _ Christaan gave it to him, so the Hessian knew what was going to happen. There’s no need to be self conscious, right? _

Still, Ichabod could not bring himself to more than glance at the toy while he and the Hessian ate; he doesn’t think that Christaan needs food, but perhaps, he only wanted to make Ichabod feel more at ease… Regardless, it isn’t until the Hessian decides that he will be leaving for a bit to gather supplies for the omega’s stay, that Ichabod decides that he must… He  _ needs it. _

The furs are soft and warm under his knees as he rocks down into the hand between his legs. His thighs quiver with every wrecked noise that leaves his battered throat. “It’s good,” he shudders, “I-I…” Suddenly, he tosses his head back when the dildo’s tip bumps into an extra sensitive spot that sends slick gushing out around it. “Mmnn… too mu-much…”

A part of him imagines the Hessian watching… imagines the way the man’s scent colors with wisteria... imagines the way that it felt to have Christaan’s hands on his wrists, holding him down until he can do nothing but buck his hips into the length buried in his guts… He wants it… He wants… He  _ wants! _

He barely manages to choke off the name that threatens to tumble out of his mouth; it wouldn’t do to start moaning the Hessian’s name, even if he's not in the same room. No, the only thing that comes out of his mouth is a strangled groan and a little broken plea.

There’s a loud clattering noise.

Ichabod’s eyes shoot open, and without truly processing the sight before him, he pulls a fur up around his body, completely forgetting to remove the toy still buried in his sopping hole. It’s for this reason that Ichabod lets out a mewling cry while he looks at the barely concealed shock on Christaan’s face.

His sword is on the floor, still in its sheath, but on the floor all the same. In his free arm is a makeshift bag with stolen foods that Christaan barely stops himself from dropping and instead sets it down on the black table.

In those few moments his back is turned, Ichabod takes the moment to pull the toy out and curls up tighter in the makeshift nest.

When Christaan looks up again, there’s guilt coloring his normally impassive expression. “I apologize… I shouldn’t have… I just…” He hisses out a long suffering breath. “I’ve… never seen another.”

Ichabod jerks up, curiosity warring with the humiliation he feels. “What do you mean another?” he asks with a surprisingly steady voice given the situation.

Christaan turns his head away, and Ichabod can smell the rust coming off of him in waves, swallowing up the scent of wisteria… the scent of… “When I was alive… I was an omega.”

Of all things that the Hessian could have said, Ichabod isn’t sure that he would have ever guessed this given the mercenary's previous occupation, stature, and general demeanor. “You were an…”

With a shallow nod, Christaan drops into the armchair by the fire, still avoiding the human’s gaze. “I fully expect that to be surprising… given...  _ what _ I am." There's a wave of rust pouring out with every second, as thick and choking as a tidal of blood. "It's not unheard of for an alpha to have something sweet or gentle… especially when they always smell like violence." His eyes are ice chips untouched by the flames. "No one ever suspected, and I never told anyone… And now…"

Ichabod’s gaze softens even further at the despondent edge to the Hessian’s voice. He nearly forgets the question swirling around as the urge to comfort bats at the lingering lust in his veins, but the question is just too important. "You're not an omega anymore, are you?"

"No… but yes. I am..." Christaan heaves out a long suffering sigh. "-colored by memory… and the  _ deal _ . The former Lady Van Tassel wanted an alpha avenger… but she also wanted to control me. She could not destroy what was and is; her deal was not that specific." He suddenly stands and steps closer to the fire as if he could see her face staring back from the fires of hell. "I was and am an omega, but I am also an alpha…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look here's the reason why the Christaan's orientation isn't listed in the tags.


	14. Proof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katrina and Brom come to check up on Ichabod.

With a shivery sigh, Ichabod accepts the long, soft coat from the Hessian. It hits just above his knees, preserving as much modesty as possible; it would be enough, and yet, he cannot bring himself to leave in such an underdressed state. So a long, equally as soft, black skirt covers up his pale, pale legs, painting him with an allure of gentleness and magic.

The skirt belongs to Christaan, one of the many things that suddenly appeared in the tree after his resurrection. He admitted to owning a similar one in life, to wearing it when safe in the quiet German countryside, to making no mark to hide his omega nature when alone and safe and far from prying eyes. 

He burned it when he left for America.

"Are you sure?" Christaan asks again and finally turns from the fireplace to look Ichabod over.

"Yes… and I would rather get it over with before I make a fool out of myself." Christaan nods and dutifully holds out his hand for Ichabod to take.

* * *

Katrina's beside herself with worry the longer it takes for something to happen. Brom, for all his stony face and rigid posture, is full of the same restless energy that vaguely colors his scent with unease. The setting sun casts shadows a plenty on the ground around them, leaving the horses alert and watching for any sign of movement.

Then the Tree of the Dead splits open like a gaping maw to reveal the Hessian sans armor but still in black pants and a deep red tunic that do nothing to hide the raw strength in his body. Yet, there is no malice in those pale blue eyes, only appraisal until at last he steps aside to reveal the ruffled omega that follows.

Ichabod is softer than either Katrina or Brom has seen him before. His black hair is messed about in ragged curls that look almost charming paired with the soft look in his dark eyes and the way his lips quirk into the barest beginning of a smile. The black coat that comes down to his knees is somehow the most modest and vulgar thing Brom has ever seen, so large on the man that it cannot possibly be his. The five silver buttons gleam in the low light, the fittings of a treasure one dares not possess. And the long, soft, black skirt paints a sinful picture of elegance when Ichabod walks out into the woods sans footwear and radiating a mixture of unease and contentment.

"Katrina," he breathes and steps forward slowly as if afraid to spook her.

"Ichabod…" She pulls the omega into a hug as her scent colors with joy at seeing him again. When she pulls back, Katrina looks into his eyes with a desperate searching that it's genuinely hard to meet her gaze. "Are you alright? Has he hurt you?"

Ichabod lays a hand across the one on his face. "I am fine. Christaan has been a perfect gentleman… I feel…" He leans forward to press a kiss to her forehead. "I am safe here, and I intend to spend the rest of my heat within the tree."

"Christaan?" Katrina inquires. "Is that his name?" The Hessian nods once.

She looks dead set to continue this questioning until Brom interrupts with a more pressing concern. "Stay?" He throws a disdainful look at the tree. "What are you thinking? You're vulnerable, and you're planning to stay with the formerly Headless Horseman?! Who knows what he's done to omegas in the past? Who knows what he might try to do with–"

"Brom," Ichabod chides, his voice dropping nearly an octave in his annoyance. "I am an adult, and I expect you to remember that…" When Brom takes a step back, Ichabod seems to relax minutely and continues. "I am sorry for how I acted in the windmill… I am sorry for asking those things of you. It is better if I am here… I am safe… safer than I've felt in many heats past."

When Brom makes no move to do or say anything else, Katrina fills that void and turns her attention to the Hessian. "You will promise to protect him, yes?"

Christaan nods. "I would not have brought him here if that wasn't my intention."

She nods sharply and turns back to give Ichabod another hug. "Be safe… I'll take care of Jonathan while you're gone."

"Thank you, Katrina… I am indebted to you."

Katrina smiles. "No… I'm the one that owes you, but I wouldn't hold this over your head ever." She cards her hand through his hair gently, untangling knots as she does. "You and Jonathan are my family now… for as long as you'll have me."

Ichabod returns that pleasant grin. "Forever then… A sister in all but blood." Before Katrina can respond in kind, Ichabod's breath sharpens, and he's shaking with the effort to remain standing on his own.

"It's time to go back in," Christaan announces and quickly scoops up the quaking omega. "I will bring him back to the Hollow as soon as he is able."

"Thank you," Katrina cries. "Thank you for taking care of him!" Christaan only nods and walks into the tree's maw as she and Brom watch their friend disappear.

* * *

Ichabod purrs into Christaan's chest, happy when the Hessian lets out a similarly rumbling noise; it's not quite the same as an omega's purr or an alpha's growl… It's somewhere in between… It's something wholly Christaan.

"Thank you," he whispers and curls his fingers tighter into Christaan’s tunic. "For letting me see them… and for letting me stay."

The rumbling in the Hessian's chest only grows louder as he sets Ichabod down on the makeshift nest. "You aren't a prisoner… but I am glad that you feel safe here."

There's a beat of silence between them before Christaan moves to stand, to put some space between them. Ichabod's heart beats rapidly as he stares into those pale blue eyes, and then he just…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will not apologize.


	15. Ravage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ichabod wants to do more than kiss Christaan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, this is just porn. Straight up, this is porn.
> 
> Next chapter is a little plot but also porn.
> 
> Honestly, if you don't want to just read porn, you should probably not read anything until Chapter 19.

Christaan gasps into Ichabod's mouth, allowing the constable to slide his tongue in. As his eyes slide shut, he allows Ichabod to pull him to the nest where the younger man slides his leg in between the Hessian's.

"Is this okay?" Ichabod breathes once they part, and once Christaan manages to open his eyes, he finds the constable regarding him with an almost predatory hunger.

A long-forgotten jolt of heat bites into Christaan's belly. "Yesss~" he hisses and quickly flips them over so Ichabod is hovering over him, knee pressed into his stiffening erection.

Biting at his lip to keep from making an embarrassing noise, Christaan rolls his hips into the younger man's leg until Ichabod collapses over him, bringing their hips more flush with one another. The new angle rips keening cries from the two men and leaves them gasping into each other's mouths. Their hands slip into each other’s shirts, desperate to touch skin to skin, until they can find nothing new to touch.

Ichabod nips at the taller man’s bottom lip when he pulls back, leaving a long, unbroken string of saliva between them. He hastily unbuttons the coat and tears the skirt off over his head, leaving nothing to Christaan’s imagination; it’s something he’d desperately like reciprocated. "Clothes off," he growls, his fingers diving into the Hessian’s pants and tracing along the untamed trail of curls until they graze Christaan’s dick.

Christaan huffs a breath in through his nose and affixes the younger man with a lustful glare. It’s difficult not to tug his tunic off without knocking Ichabod off of his lap, but that effort proves to be worth it when lips suddenly descend on his right nipple. “I-Ichabod~!” Reedy sort of whines spill out of his mouth, his tongue feeling so very heavy against his teeth. Ichabod bites down suddenly, not enough to really hurt, but it’s enough to get Christaan’s attention back on his task.

Christaan shuffles out of his pants and kicks them off the bed, fully intending on getting back to that blissful state the bite knocked him out of… But Ichabod stops and pulls back to get back on his knees again.

Shame licks at the Hessian’s insides when he finally sees what’s caught Ichabod’s attention; the younger omega is looking at the anomaly between his legs. There’s an alpha’s cock, beaded and slick with precum, and an omega’s entrance, already dripping with slick and asking for attention. He’s not sure of what he expects Ichabod’s reaction to be; he’d told the man about his… predicament, but he’d never specifically told him what kind of genitalia to expec-

“You’re beautiful.”

Christaan’s startled out of the beginnings of a malicious spiral by those words. He opens his eyes;  _ when did he close them? Was it when the shame became too much?  _ Ichabod is smiling at him, equal parts honest and lustful, and one of the younger man’s hands is sliding up an open thigh.

“An alpha and an omega… all at once.”

“Mmph!” Christaan bites down onto his lip, but it does little to hide the noises building up inside of him; it’s been so long since he’s had fingers anywhere near his hole. “I-Ichabod…” He squirms when one of the fingers sliding between his lips dips inside for a split second. “Ngh…”

There’s a little chuckle, and Ichabod moves himself back over top, pressing their hips together again. “Too much?” he teases, sounding almost in control, but there’s a shake to his voice and a fluttering to his eyelids.

Christaan makes a little noise of agreement before rolling his hips up into Ichabod’s again and ripping a strangled groan from the other. They find themselves kissing again, swallowing each other’s noises as they pick up speed.

Ichabod lets out a half-bitten cry when he cums, ripping his mouth away from the Hessians to watch Christaan come undone a few thrusts later with a high-pitched whine. He watches the fearsome man shake, and a dull throb of lust spikes through his belly… but it’s far too much for now. He’s too tired...

Ichabod collapses fully, seeming not to care about the semen splashed between them, but then again, neither is Christaan, who’s more preoccupied with pulling Ichabod down into the nest. It doesn’t take them long to fall asleep with Christaan’s nose buried into the younger omega’s scent gland.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. Every time I went to work on it, something would pop up... like two other really interesting (to me) ABO fic ideas that have got me by the hair. (I'm not posting them until after this is done. They're also multichapter ideas, but neither are Sleepy Hollow- Captain Kuro from One Piece and Demigure from Overlord).


	16. Unforeseen

_ "Please~!" Christaan whimpers and tucks his head down into Ichabod’s neck, his sharp teeth grazing the younger man’s skin whenever a new, embarrassing sound rips through him. "Ichabod… I-I wa-nt it! I wan-ngh!" He grinds down into Ichabod’s stomach. "Please… can I?" _

_ Ichabod smiles and settles his hands tighter on the Hessian’s thighs. "You want me to fuck you?" _

_ "Yes!" Christaan’s dripping, his cunt soaking Ichabod’s length as it slides between the mercenary's vaginal lips. He looks so lost, so- _

"I-Ichabod… ngh… st-op… not, not n-ow. Ngh… hah… no more~...  _ Mmph _ !"

The sound of mewling cries and reedy whines rips Ichabod out of his dream, and he opens his eyes to the ceiling… to the inside of the Tree of the Dead. He looks to his right, expecting to see the Hessian beside him, but Christaan isn’t there. A loud choked-off moan draws his attention towards the fireplace; he sits up slowly, trying to be so quiet.

“...h-hot…” Christaan writhes on the floor before the cold fireplace, his face contorted in as his fingers press in deeper. His cock jumps at a particularly hard thrust, and his back arches slightly. His fingers curl into the blanket dropped on the ground, a poor excuse for a nest, but it’s better than the bare floor or ruining his chair. “Oh, Gott… Ngh… too mu-uch~!” With a dreadful little whine, Christaan snaps forward, his fingers pressing in even deeper as he squirts. Precum drips from his cock; he’s still so hard, but the pressure inside is too stimulating. It’s too much...

There’s a sound in his throat, a desperate cry just short of quailing, and Ichabod knows.

Either Christaan has been pushed into rut by Ichabod or they’re unlucky enough that their heat cycles overlap… or perhaps, it’s a little of both.

“Christaan?” Ichabod calls, trying desperately to keep his voice even. “Are you o-okay?”

Christaan’s eyes snap to Ichabod’s face, and a keening cry leaves his lips before he bites at his bottom one to swallow the shameful sounds that threaten to spill forth. “I-Icha-bod… I… I do-n’t understand… Why? Why do I fe-el so…?” Blood drips from his pointed teeth. “I can’t. I ca-n’t… _ Ichabod!” _

Ichabod’s never been all that interested in listening to an omega quail for anyone… but in that moment, hearing Christaan quail for  _ him  _ of all people, brings the fire simmering in his veins to a full boil. “Christaan…” Ichabod scrambles out of bed and drops to the Hessian’s side, his own fingers tugging out the ones still buried in the dead man’s cunt. “I need you to l-listen… Can you do that for me?”

Hazy, dark eyes seem to clear, focusing on the constable’s face with terrifying intensity; Christaan nods.

“...I think you went into rut… because of-” Ichabod breathes in sharply when his fingers are brought to Christaan’s mouth. “Because of me.”

“...r-rut isn’t supposed to - _ hah! _ \- be like th-this…”

“But you’re not only an alpha,” Ichabod whispers. “Who kn-ows what that could cause?” He leans forward to press a chaste kiss to the other’s lips. “Do… do you want to… again?”

Christaan’s eyes widen, and a mewling whine betrays how arousing that idea is. “Plea-se… please… I want…. I want!”

“Then you need to get up.” At the confused sound Christaan makes, Ichabod runs his thumb over the other’s blood-stained lip before diving in for another, longer kiss.  _ “Nest.” _

They stand together; Christaan’s so unsteady that Ichabod looks graceful by comparison, but the nest isn’t that far away. They fall together on the blankets and furs, slotting together with Christaan straddling Ichabod’s hips.

Ichabod pulls him into another kiss, one that steals their breath and leaves them panting into each other’s necks. The fire in his belly screams at him to pay attention, but he can barely bring himself to do anything other than focus on his partner’s lost expression. “What do you wa-nt?” he asks, bringing his lips to the shell of Christaan’s ear. “Whatever you want… just tell me…”

Christaan grinds down on Ichabod’s lap, but his hands are searching for something that isn’t the constable’s flesh. When he finds it, he presses the dildo into Ichabod’s hand. “... want your cock-ngh…” He shudders when Ichabod nibbles just under his jaw. “...in my mouth… and this in-inside me.”

* * *

Christaan gasps and moans into the modest dick filling his mouth, presenting a difficult challenge for Ichabod not to thrust up into that moist channel with reckless abandon, choking the Hessian until he’s coughing and squealing through the assault on his throat and sopping hole. However, Ichabod can’t help but bite at the thigh closest to his face, grinning at the way Christaan whines around his length and drives himself backwards into the dildo pressed all the way inside of him. The Hessian is stretched out over the smaller man, straddling Ichabod’s chest and leaving his throbbing erection and sopping hole at the perfect spot for the constable to tease and abuse. He’s propped up on his elbows, one hand curled tight enough into Ichabod’s hip to leave fingernail marks.

Christaan hollows his cheeks and hums, his bitten lips curling tighter to his teeth to keep from accidentally scratching Ichabod. It’s a struggle to keep from sucking down like a starving man, but he knows that too much desperation will make it difficult to keep his teeth away. Still, his tongue laves over the constable’s shaft constantly, regardless of whether it’s buried in his mouth or pressed against his bloody lips as he breathes and whines his way through waves of ecstasy.

Christaan rolls his hips downwards and drops his head down onto Ichabod’s cock, his eyes rolling up in the back of his head at the exquisite way he feels used. He swallows rapidly, wanting to bring Ichabod to the edge... He thinks he can do it again, thinks he can torment Ichabod at the edge of cumming but keeping it just out of reach... He miscalculates; it’s just too much

Ichabod bites back a strangled cry and thrusts the dildo in as far as it will go. His hips jerk up against his will, the head of his dick managing to hit the back of Christaan’s throat as he cums. He can feel Christaan’s own seed spill onto his chest and on the barest edge of consciousness feels relieved that he hasn’t left the other hanging.

With a whimpering sound, Christaan falls forward, smearing his face with the sticky remnants of semen. It’s still hard, and Ichabod’s thighs are shiny with slick… Christaan huffs out a shuddering breath and twitches at the hot breath on his skin. “M-more?” he tries, failing spectacularly at keeping his voice level.

Ichabod’s tongue slides into the Hessian’s vaginal lips and threatens to slide in beside the glass still stretching Christaan’s hole wide. With a loud, sloppy lick that rips another keening cry from the older man, Ichabod hums appreciatively and replies, “more…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is Christaan a needy bottom? Did I need to make him more needy than Ichabod?
> 
> Is there a point to any of these questions?
> 
> Also, bottom bitch Christaan is now my favorite for Ichabod/Headless Horseman. Idk why. I don't make the rules.


	17. Breaking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas!

It takes all of two days for Brom to lose all sense of composure and be all but thrown out of the Van Tassel estate by Katrina; the new head of house offered her friend a place to stay until Ichabod returns to quell the worry in his soul. However, the more time that passed, the more agitated he became, riling up Katrina and worrying Masbath.

So Brom rides out into the Western Woods with his saddle bags full of fresh vegetables, smoked meats, and some of Ichabod’s own clothes. It takes an hour longer than he would have expected to find the old Indian trail, but the sun is barely setting when he arrives. He wonders how he’s going to get the horseman’s attention as he ties up his horse, but it seems that isn’t a problem.

The moment he turns around, he sees Daredevil standing in front of the tree with perfect stillness. The black stallion regards him with contemptuous eyes; it wants to know why he's come.

Brom swallows hard. "I have some food and clothes for Ichabod. We thought he'd want his own clothes.” Daredevil leans forward and wickers in his face before grabbing a sleeve and tugging Brom closer. “You want me to follow you?” At a snort, he follows the great beast to and through the sudden gash in the tree’s flesh, barely managing to keep from gagging at the potent smell of blood and viscera.

Traveling through the membranous maw of the Tree of the Dead is something that Brom desperately never wants to experience again, but that horror seems so far when he emerges into the Hessian’s home.

High, reedy whines fill the air as Christaan writhes in the nest of blankets and furs, the fingers of his left hand curled loosely in Ichabod’s hair. His eyes are squeezed tightly shut as his mouth continuously parts to bring in sharp breaths. His chin is slick with drool, undoubtedly coming from the fact that Ichabod just won't stop. "Oh please~... Gott! Icha- _ bod! _ "

The constable snickers and licks into the Hessian with vigor. His left hand clutches Christaan’s thigh, acting as a balance while he fucks himself on the glass dildo. His own breathy cries on seem to excite the other more until Christaan quails for Ichabod to 'just fuck me already!'

Ichabod pulls up and grins devilishly before rasping out, "so needy…"

Christaan opens his eyes a sliver and whines again, planning to beg.

But then Daredevil whinnies.

Ichabod turns his head sharply as Christaan's eyes open wide. 

Brom looks just as surprised, but that could equally be from the general sight or the realization that the Hessian has a vagina.

Ichabod seems to unfreeze first with a loud squeak. He quickly grabs a discarded blanket and shuffles backwards into Christaan’s lap. "Ngh, fu-ck…" He leans back into the other omega and fumbles under the blankets until he manages to pull the toy out.

"Forgot again?" Christaan whispers, his mouth pressed to the younger man's ear.

With a nod, Ichabod turns his attention fully on the intruding alpha. "Wh-what are you do-ing here, Brom?" Ichabod licks his lips and swallows quickly. Christaan offers him the cup of water near the bed, and he drinks it down greedily.

"Bringing supplies…"

"And what does that have to do with you being in here?"

"Talk to the horse about that. It's not like I was expecting you to be fucking the horseman when I got here!"

Ichabod snarls, fully intending on ripping Brom open for that comment, but then he hears Christaan start whimpering and smells the rust seeping in. "The last time I checked, you're not my alpha… And I'm not an object you can just claim… If you want to talk, you need to sit down and shut the fuck up until Christaan and I feel…" Ichabod pitches forward with a gasp when he feels Christaan's cock grind up against his lips. "... wh-when we're less… less…" Ichabod shifts his hips downwards and keens. "When we're less desperate…"

Seeing the way Ichabod’s face contorts with ravenous pleasure, Brom finds himself simultaneously thinking about bolting and watching the show unfold… He supposes it shouldn't be surprising that he stays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter is Brom/Christaan/Ichabod.


	18. Trio

Almost immediately after the omegas separate, Brom’s rearing for the discussion, fully intending on ignoring his erection. It’s not a pleasant conversation; Ichabod’s about to lose his mind each time he has to repeat a point or defend Christaan’s honest intentions… However, halfway into the conversation, Christaan leans over Ichabod to whisper in German, “do you think he’d fuck me if you asked?”

Ichabod stops dead in his repeat explanation of Christaan’s status as both an omega and an alpha and turns to give a wide-eyed look to the Hessian. “Huh?”

“If he fucks me while I penetrate you, we can both be knotted at the same time…”

Ichabod finds his face flushing as those words reignite the embers of lust in his veins. It’s an attractive idea, and he can’t deny the wistfulness he’s been feeling whenever he sees Christaan cum on his dick or the knotted dildo. “You want it that badly?” Ichabod doesn’t wait for an answer before he turns back to Brom and tilts his head. “Would some hands-on experience help you out?”

Brom furrows his eyebrows and grits out, “what do you mean?”

Ichabod pulls the blanket off of his and Christaan’s bodies. “You could fuck Christaan while he fucks me… You could knot him at the same time he does me.” Christaan rubs his head against Ichabod’s arm and lets out that abnormal-sounding purr. “It’d feel so good… and we’d be so grateful…”

* * *

A mewling cry rips itself from Christaan’s throat as he buries his face into Ichabod’s shoulder. He struggles to hold himself off of the smaller man, his arms shaking hard as Ichabod squeezes around his cock. The hand in his hair tightens and pulls backwards, asking him to face the other omega. Ichabod smiles and relinquishes his grip on Christaan’s hair, instead moving his hand down to cup the Hessian’s flushed cheek. They’re breathing hard, heating up the space between them as they lean closer and closer until they're practically breathing into each other’s mouths.

Then Brom thrusts into Christaan.

Christaan cries out and bucks his hips forward, further into Ichabod. The constable groans lowly and leans up to lick into the Hessian’s mouth, his eyes half-lidded in want. The kiss does little to muffle their noises and instead introduces something sloppier sounding than their sopping cunts. Their tongues tangle together, dripping saliva down onto each other’s lips and down their chins. With each whimpering cry, it grows harder and harder for Christaan to keep his teeth away from Ichabod’s lips and tongue, but Ichabod sucks on his tongue like he’s unafraid of being bitten.

When Brom curls his nails into the Hessian’s hip, Christaan yelps and pushes back into the length splitting him wide. A shudder travels down his spine and drives him to thrust into Ichabod, bouncing between the heat around his dick and one filling his aching cunt. It's difficult to keep himself centered and give as much to the other omega as he's getting from the alpha brutally fucking his hole.

"Christaan…" Ichabod moans, breaking their kiss to catch his breath. "...good… so good." His words pull a high whine from the older man; praise is one of the Hessian's weak points.

_ "Too much…"  _ Christaan mewls, slipping into German without seeming to notice.  _ "So full…" _

Ichabod cracks a smile and curls a hand into black locks.  _ "Just...ahn… just wait… until his knot swells."  _ Another, almost strangled, whine leaves Christaan’s throat, causing Brom's tempo to stutter momentarily.  _ "When he cums, you'll be so t-ight... he won't be able to get you-ngh-out of his h-head… you're going to r-ruin him, love." _

Christaan bucks into Ichabod with reckless abandon, spurred on by the imagery; it's been so long since he's been knotted…  _ "Gott… I'm going to… guh! Hah… please~..." _

Realization turns the constable’s grin almost feral.  _ "Feels that good?" _ Christaan nods his head rapidly.  _ "Then cum…"  _ Ichabod clenches down at the same time Brom thrusts in.

Christaan's voice gets caught in his throat, cutting off the building quail, and he drops his head to Ichabod's shoulder.  _ "Sorry… sorry," _ he whimpers; he's so, so close.

Ichabod whines and clenches around the swelling knot, ripping a keening cry from the taller omega. The moment they're locked together, Christaan finally lets loose a brutal, wrecked quail and cums.

Desperate noises spill from their lips, spurred on by the torrent of semen Christaan spills into Ichabod’s tight hole and the way Brom’s vicious thrusts jostle the knot in Ichabod. 

Brom looks at them with surprise and picks up his pace, hoping to make Ichabod cum through Christaan. He slams into the Hessian and delights in the shocked noises he's able to rip from the older man, but it's just too much.

Oversensitized, Christaan wails and curls harder around Ichabod, his teeth biting into the fur beneath them. He’s shaking, near to tears from how strung out he’s becoming. He doesn’t want to leave either Brom or Ichabod hanging, but he’s going to pass out.

_ “Christaaaan~, feels good…” _

The sound of the constable’s voice pulls him back into consciousness; he wants to watch… wants to make Ichabod cum on his knot, even if he has to endure Brom’s brutal thrusts. He feels Ichabod’s thighs close on his and pulls his teeth loose. Slowly, shuddering with each time Brom’s hips smack against his ass, he rises up again to look Ichabod in the eye.

Ichabod’s expression is awash with hazy pleasure, only brightening when he realizes that Christaan’s watching him again.  _ “I think I’m going… I think I’m…” _

Christaan lets out a broken form of his strange purr.  _ “Pl-ease… please love…” _

Hearing his affectionate term returned, Ichabod lets out a loud quail and digs his fingers into the Hessian’s shoulders as he finally cums.

Brom’s eyes are locked on Ichabod’s face.

He imagines that look is all for himself, that the knot Ichabod’s cumming around is his.

Christaan clenches around him again, so tight and hot. His knot is swelling, stretching out the Hessian’s inner walls until it’s stuck.

Brom lets out a choked moan and cums.

* * *

Brom finds himself staring at the back of Christaan’s mess of curly hair, listening to the two omegas kiss languidly. Ichabod laughs breathlessly at something Christaan says, and not for the first time, Brom wishes that he understood the language they share. They’re tangled up in one another, pressed so tightly together that it seems almost impossible for them to get any closer.

Brom lays still, listening as they grow quieter, slowly unwinding from one another as they fall asleep… Brom knows that he’s an outsider, that he’s an intruder, and he can’t wait to get away.

Once his knot finally deflates, he slides free and slips his spent cock into his trousers. Then, he just leaves.


	19. Fountain

Afternoon has just dawned when dark eyes open to find a heavy arm weighing him down to the nest. Sometime during the morning, Christaan’s softened cock slid from Ichabod’s hole, leaving it dripping with semen and aching quite pleasantly. With a quiet purr, Ichabod slides his hand down his partner's side before shifting back to grab his ass.

After a moment, Christaan lets out a quiet groan and opens his eyes a slit to take in the coy expression on Ichabod’s face. He returns the purr and tugs the constable tighter to his chest.

Ichabod laughs sharply. "Feeling better?" Christaan nods into his shoulder and hums affirmatively. "Me as well."

As much as he'd like to forget the promise he made, Christaan would feel remiss to keep from reminding Ichabod. "You can go home tonight, if you so choose," he admits, but a part of him wishes that the burning in their veins still scorched their insides. "I'll take you…"

Ichabod barely seems willing to think it over. "Not tonight," he whispers. "I don't want to go anywhere yet."

It takes everything Christaan has not to let on how overjoyed he is. "Okay…"

They fall into companionable silence for a good while, at least, until a thought occurs to the smaller man. "Have… have you ever seen two omegas together?" Ichabod pauses for a moment before deciding that he needs to explain his question further. "As mates?"

Christaan purrs into his neck and curls his arm tighter around the other omega. "I have… Their names were Ella and Annabelle. They were mated for seventeen years when I met them."

Ichabod blinks rapidly before humming. "Their mark worked?"

"Yes."

A fierce blush burns onto Ichabod’s cheeks. "Christaan… do you… want to… will you... mark me?"

Suddenly, the Hessian removes his arm and sits up, eyes wide in shock. "You… want me to mark you?" Ichabod nods. "Gott… you're a wonder…"


	20. Wisteria

“Ichabod!”

When the fast moving blur of Masbath thumps against him, Ichabod is quite thankful for Christaan’s steady hand at his back. He loops his arms around the boy with a contented, rumbling purr that matches the little noises leaving the unoriented child.

“I want to introduce you to someone,” Ichabod croons and looks back at the Hessian eyeing the amassing villagers with discomfort and veiled worry; his scent is sharp with rust… with blood, and Ichabod knows that the fearful turn of his scent will send the wrong message to those who aren’t intimately familiar with it. “Masbath… Jonathan, I want you to meet Christaan.” Ichabod reaches back with one hand to pull his mate closer and refocus his gaze on them and not the villagers. “Christaan, this is Jonathan Masbath Jr… my…” Masbath looks up at him with wide, curious eyes. “I suppose, he is my youngling now.”

Christaan reaches out with the hand not clutched in Ichabod’s and ruffles the boy’s hair; Masbath doesn’t flinch, but the Hessian knows he is not a fool. Masbath knows that he’s the formerly headless horseman. “Hello, Jonathan… Ichabod’s told me much about you.”

“Did you take care of him?” Masbath asks, his voice hopeful but still sharp with a  _ need _ to know.

“Yes… And he took care of me.”

It’s been years since Christaan last squeaked, but when those arms wrap around his back as Masbath abandons clinging to Ichabod, the shock keeps him from responding... at least not until Masbath shudders through a wrecked ‘thank you!’

Christaan curls up around the boy, drawing a tendril of glow to curl up in his chest. His scent mellows and the rust slides away to reveal the twist of wisteria, the twist of the sweet beneath the bitter that defined his life.

Masbath’s eyes grow wide, and he whispers lowly with wonder so potent, Christaan is sure he can taste it, “you’re an omega too?”

“Yes…” Christaan looks up at Ichabod to find the constable watching them with soft, affectionate eyes. “I’m omega enough…”

* * *

Brom and Katrina appear shortly after Christaan's admission to Masbath with expressions so very different from one another.

Katrina is understandably excited and quickly swamps Ichabod in a hug that threatens to choke the life out of him. She quickly notes the bite, still raw in the junction between Ichabod’s shoulder and neck, and an almost delighted squeal leaves her mouth.

"You're mated?" she breathes, trying her hardest to keep her voice down.

Ichabod blushes hotly. "I am… Christaan is… He's perfect."

Brom, on the other hand, goes for Christaan, beckoning the Hessian to step away from his mate for just a moment. "Take care of him," he whispers, carefully keeping his voice level; it wouldn’t do to come off as territorial about someone who was never his.

Christaan nods his head slightly and glances back at Ichabod who's busy scenting his youngling. "You need not ask… I wouldn't have marked him if I didn't intend to keep him… and I would not have let him mark me in turn."

It takes that statement for Brom to notice the angry edge of a new mark under the Hessian’s high collar. It shows no signs of rejection, no sign of coercion or force… it seems to be a mark of genuine origin, and Brom feels… almost happy for them.


	21. Letter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to upload this one with the previous two chapters because it's a little drier than the rest of the story.

To whom it may concern,

I, Constable Ichabod Crane, am writing to both issue the findings of my investigation and request a permanent relocation to Sleepy Hollow. Attached you will find sworn statements and testimony from reliable witnesses and the comprehensive report of my findings.

Regardless of the feelings of the court and council, I strongly urge for my transfer/resignation to be approved as I have new and unforeseeable permanent responsibilities within Sleepy Hollow.

During the investigation, I have become the legal guardian of one newly orphaned boy: Jonathan Masbath Jr. and the godfather of another: Thomas Killian.

With the deaths of the village's doctor and midwife, I have been asked to help bridge medical needs until a new doctor is found.

Lady Katrina Van Tassel has also requested my presence to facilitate the governmental changes as all previous town heads have perished. Information on these deaths is included within my written report.

Finally, I have recently found a life mate within the Hollow who is unable to leave.

As such, I am unable to return to duty in New York City.

Sincerely,

Lord Ichabod Crane

* * *

**Victim:** Peter Van Garrett

**Cause of Death:** Decapitation

**Finding:** Murder by Unnamed Mercenary

**Victim:** Dirk Van Garret

**Cause of Death:** Decapitation

**Finding:** Murder by Unnamed Mercenary

**Victim:** Emily Winship

**Cause of Death:** Decapitation

**Finding:** Murder by Unnamed Mercenary

**Victim:** Baby Winship-Van Garrett

**Cause of Death:** Stab to Mother's Stomach

**Finding:** Murder by Unnamed Mercenary

**Victim:** Jonathan Masbath Sr

**Cause of Death:** Decapitation

**Finding:** Murder by Unnamed Mercenary

**Victim:** Magistrate Richard Philipse

**Cause of Death:** Decapitation

**Finding:** Murder by Unnamed Mercenary

**Victim:** Beth Killian

**Cause of Death:** Decapitation

**Finding:** Murder by Unnamed Mercenary

**Victim:** Stephen Killian

**Cause of Death:** Decapitation

**Finding:** Murder by Unnamed Mercenary

**Victim:** Notary Michael Hardinbrook

**Cause of Death:** Hanging

**Finding:** Suicide

**Victim:** Doctor Ian Lancaster

**Cause of Death:** Bludgeoning of the Head via Wooden Cross

**Finding:** Murder by Reverend Jeffery Steenwyck

**Victim:** Reverend Jeffery Steenwyck

**Cause of Death:** Gunshot to Chest

**Finding:** Murder by Baltus Van Tassel

**Victim:** Baltus Van Tassel

**Cause of Death:** Decapitation

**Finding:** Murder by Unnamed Mercenary

**Victim:** Mary Van Tassel

**Cause of Death:** Decapitation

**Finding:** Murder by Unnamed Mercenary

* * *

Mary Van Tassel neé Archer orchestrated a conspiracy to inherit the Van Tassel fortune through extortion and murder.

Following learning that Peter Van Garrett sired Emily Winship's child and that the Van Garrett fortune would pass to Ms. Winship to care for her child in the event of his passing, she hired an unknown mercenary to kill Peter and Dirk Van Garret and Emily Winship. Beth (midwife) and Stephen Killian were murdered following Beth's admission to Mary Van Tassel that Emily Winship had told the midwife of her pregnancy.

This conspiracy involved the following members: Reverend Steenwyck, Notary Hardinbrook, Doctor Lancaster and Magistrate Philipse. These men helped her to cover up the existence of the unborn baby.

Magistrate Philipse complied with my initial investigations but was unwilling to implicate Mary Van Tassel before he was murdered. Doctor Lancaster attempted to bring light to the conspiracy and was henceforth murdered in front of Baltus Van Tassel who killed Reverend Steenwyck in retaliation.

Mary Van Tassel abducted myself and attempted to pull me into the conspiracy. During this time, she fully revealed her plan.

Before she could cause significant harm to myself, she was interrupted by Katrina Van Tassel, Jonathan Masbath Jr, Brom Van Brunt and her mercenary. The mercenary employed by Mary Van Tassel then killed her and vanished.

It is unlikely that he will be found.

-Lord Ichabod Crane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of characters don't have a listed first name, so I decided to borrow the first name of the actor who played them.


	22. Fallacies and Mercenaries

The little village of Sleepy Hollow is quite loud for one of its size when a carriage carrying two investigators from New York City arrives one late morning. It's been nearly a month since Ichabod sent his findings and request, and while Ichabod and Christaan are still an oddity in the Hollow, they are an oddity that the village is rapidly adapting to.

It's incredibly rare for anyone to see Ichabod in the mornings unless he's given advanced notice or there's an emergency. The sun is still unkind to Christaan, reminding him that he’s meant to be well and truly dead, not this half-living that keeps him beside his life mate. So, Ichabod spends his mornings in the Tree of the Dead, sleeping beside the fearsome mercenary and returns to the Hollow by mid-afternoon.

Some days, he walks all the way from the tree, perhaps visiting Mary’s sister Abigail or collecting herbs that grow wild in the deep woods. Other days, he convinces Daredevil to take him to the wood's edge, using the thick trees to hide from the worst of the sunlight. And on rare days, he simply opens a door from the tree to the notary's apartment which Ichabod uses as a study.

On this particular day, Ichabod chooses to walk, meaning at the time the investigators arrive, he's barely started down the old Indian trail.

The moment they're spotted, the conversation nearest them, a group of rowdy young men talking about going off on a hunt now that the Western Woods aren’t  _ as dangerous _ , suddenly dies. After a moment, one of the investigators turns to them and offers his kindest smile. "Good morning, gentlemen… I am Constable Herrick of New York City, and this is my partner, Corning. We're looking for Constable Ichabod Crane."

The expressions on most of the young men's faces turn distrustful of the two outsiders before Brom decides to speak up. "Ichabod’s not in town right now, but I know where he'll be later."

Herrick breathes a small sigh of relief; he already hates this place. “Ah, thank you, Mr…?”

“Brom Van Brunt.” Brom hits one of the boys with his glove to get his attention. "Tell Katrina to meet us by the notary."

“Right…” The chosen man takes off running for the estate in the distance as if unwilling to spend even a second longer in their presence.

Brom bids his friends ado and beckons the strangers along. “I’ll show you where he’ll be later today, but unfortunately, I can’t let you in…”

The two constables follow rather closely, both intrigued and worried at the closed off nature of the locals; if they’re this skittish around the two of them, how did they react to someone like Crane? Silence reins between the three of them and continues even after Brom brings them to a dirty building bearing large windows with piles of paper so high that it’s hard to even see inside. 

Only a few minutes of this awkward silence persists before a young woman on a white horse comes riding up with a set of keys looped around her left wrist. “Thank you for bringing them here, Brom… would you mind taking Alister for me?”

Brom smiles almost sweetly and helps her dismount. “Would you like me to take Alister back to the estate?” he asks, privately hoping she’ll decline, but alas, she has a different idea.

“Please.” She turns to the newcomers, trying her hardest to adopt a severe expression. "I am Lady Katrina Van Tassel. I suppose you are here about Lord Ichabod Crane's report."

Herrick and Corning both nod before the former continues. “We are indeed.”

"Well, you're in luck. Ichabod is meant to be in his study this afternoon to meet with the applicants for town doctor… and then, he and I will be pouring over another cache of documents.” She tucks an errant hair out of her face and goes to open the door. “If he arrives early, then he can perhaps talk to you first. If not, then he and I can do our business over tea or dinner…" Katrina sighs heavily. "...assuming Jonathan or Thomas don't do anything stupid."

As soon as the door unlocks, Katrina ushers them inside. "As long as you don't touch anything, I doubt Ichabod will be too annoyed if we head upstairs." She locks the door behind them and leads the men up to the small apartment split into three rooms. The one she leads them into is an office, one somehow cleaner and messier than the mess downstairs. "This used to be the late Notary Hardinbrook's office… It's become an unfortunate mess in these last few years, and it's driving Ichabod mad."

* * *

Around one, Ichabod unlocks the door to the notary, quickly noting scents that are oddly familiar, but he just can't place them, alongside Katrina's. "Katrina," he calls out as he walks up the stairs, "Christaan wanted me to tell you he'll probably be late for dinner. He said something about wanting to talk to Abi-" He turns the corner into the open door of his study, still talking until he sees the two men sitting across the small table from his sister in all but blood. "-gail." He sighs and moves to his desk where the last seat not piled with documents sits. "Herrick, Corning."

"Crane."

"May I ask what this is about? I assume that my report made it back to the city."

Corning, who's been so very quiet, finally opens his mouth to rasp out in a voice ravaged by smoke, "the superiors weren't exactly satisfied by the explanation or your refusal to deliver it personally."

"I see." Ichabod unbuttons his long coat and tosses it over the back of his chair, and through the dusty, old papers, the investigators can smell the cloying scent of honeysuckle, mint, and fresh autumn leaves. "I would have delivered it, but as you can see, I am much too preoccupied here."

Herrick laughs. "We can smell it… Found yourself an omega then?" The startled look on Ichabod’s face only seems to fuel the chuckling coming from Herrick.

Corning doesn't share his enthusiasm, remembering a time when he smelt that same peculiar scent on the youngest man. He'd written it off then, but he can't now; he's sure of it. "You're an omega, aren't you, Crane?"

Herrick's laughter abruptly dies, and he shakes his head in disbelief… but when he scents the air, he understands why Corning announced it so. "What the hell?"

Ichabod’s teeth grit together, and his nails dig sharply into the fabric of his coat. The look on his face is far enough from feral to not frighten the beta (Herrick) and alpha (Corning), but Katrina knows that look; he's pissed. "Is there a problem?" he asks, trying his hardest to keep his voice level and non-threatening.

Herrick’s mouth is open with surprise; for once in his life, there’s nothing spilling from his mouth.

The door swings open downstairs, and an old man’s voice calls out, “Lord Crane?”

Ichabod brightens considerably and calls back, “upstairs, Doctor Fairweather.” He crosses his arms, tapping his fingers in rhythmic annoyance. “I have a meeting… we can discuss this later.” He turns his gaze to Katrina. “Would you mind putting them up in your house for the time being? I don’t exactly have space…”

Katrina smiles in a menacing way that shows off too many teeth. “Of course. I don’t think Christaan would be happy if they stayed with you.”

* * *

The meetings take longer than Ichabod expected, but he's assured in his decision to invite both of them to stay for a time and get to know their potential patients. The sky's casting a myriad of colors through patchwork clouds that allow Christaan to slip out of the tree early, using the clouds and trees to safely navigate. Just sun dips below the horizon, bathing the Hollow in darkness, Christaan and Daredevil bolt from the trees.

Ichabod hears them come up behind him just as he starts up the final stretch to the Van Tassel estate. He turns and accepts the hand that yanks him up behind the horseman. 

"Two of my fellow constables have appeared…"

"I know," Christaan replies, "Abigail warned me."

"Wish she would have warned me."

Christaan’s vigorous laughter pulls a sweet smile out of the constable.


	23. Saccharine

Leaving Daredevil to his own devices, Ichabod and Christaan quietly slip into the manor. Christaan trails behind his mate, a warmth filling his chest as Ichabod’s fingers slide between his to lock them together. A quiet rumble threatens to loosen itself, but Christaan pushes that urge aside; now isn't the time.

They emerge into the formal dining room where Jonathan, Brom and Katrina are talking with the newcomer constables. The moment they step through the door, all eyes turn to them; Katrina looks delighted to see them… the conversation has been annoying.

"Christaan!" she chirps, "I thought you were going to be late!"

He smiles slightly, still watching Ichabod’s coworkers out of the corner of his eye. "I left a bit early. It's not like Abigail really has anything to do." A smattering of quiet laughter fills the air, and Ichabod turns to smile fondly at him; he runs his thumb across the back of the Hessian’s hand, hoping to soothe the anxiety buried in his mind.

After a moment, Ichabod forces himself to talk to his fellow constables. "Herrick, Corning, this is my life mate, Christaan."

Herrick wastes no time putting his foot in his mouth and choking on it so deeply, it comes out his ass. “What the absolute fuck, Crane?”

Christaan’s barely holding onto his temper, barely containing the incandescent rage threatening to overtake his carefully constructed calm; Ichabod knows it could go very poorly if Herrick doesn't get his head out of his ass. "Is there a problem?" he inquires, voice barely betraying the warning inherent in his dangerous ice blue eyes.

Herrick still refuses to spare the Hessian a glance. "Are you seriously trying to convince us that you're mated to another omega? If you're that hard up to be mated, then you might as well come back to the city." Corning's eyes grow wider with each misogynistic word that comes out of the beta's mouth. "We'll get you a meeting with the council, and they'll provide you an alpha or beta who can provide for you. Maybe if you're lucky you can still be a constable… If not, I'm sure you'll be able to find something else to occupy your time. I mean, it's pretty dangerous for an omeg–"

Christaan snarls, bearing his filed teeth like an attacking shark. His scent bleeds violence, rust and gunpowder threatening to overpower the wisteria entirely. He sees the humans' fear contort their expressions, can smell it curdle the air… except for Ichabod who slides his hand into the Hessian’s and squeezes. The effect is almost instantaneous, allowing Christaan to reel in his anger and the outpouring of hormones.

Instead, he starts talking, voice cold and stern. "Who do you think you are?" No words leave Herrick's throat. "Do you think just because you’re not an omega that you can speak for all of us? Do you think that you’re gott’s gift to omega-kind?” His eyes narrow further. “I promise you that an omega can be just as capable as any alpha or beta…. And I promise you, if you try to take my mate away, I will gut you and turn you into a gottdamned scarecrow.” 

* * *

Ichabod runs his fingers through Christaan’s hair and smiles softly when his abnormal purr rumbles through their chests. They lie tangled up in one another, surrounded by the furs that are drenched in their scents, a shared nest, a place of safety… “Thank you for coming to my rescue,” he whispers, “I didn’t know what to say to them… But I shouldn’t have been surprised.”

“It’s alright to be surprised,” Christaan replies, voice deep with the call of sleep; he’s comfortable here... They’re comfortable here, and it’s difficult to stay awake in such a safe space. “You’re allowed to hope that… that people will accept you for who you are.”

Ichabod hums softly. “You accept me right?”

“Always have… and I always will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end!
> 
> I absolutely loved this story tbh, and I'm so glad I found this fandom


End file.
